Someone Is Living in My Dreams

Every night, as darkness settles outside my window, I feel a strange presence with me. It’s not terrifying, but it’s undeniably real. The dream world I slip into is no longer empty – someone else has moved in. At first, I thought it was a trick of the mind, maybe the echo of a story I read too late. But as the nights wore on, the feeling grew too vivid to ignore. Someone is living in my dreams, whispering to me in the silence between sleep and waking.

I remember the first time I sensed them: the dream was a simple scene from my childhood. The backyard, late summer, the old swing set moving gently in a warm breeze. I pumped my legs and shot into the sky, high above the ground. Mid-swing, I froze.

I heard it then – a soft, familiar laugh from the seat next to me. My breath caught in my throat as I looked over, expecting to see her. But the other swing was empty. I held my breath as I landed with a thump, half expecting the swing to move or a voice to call out my name.

Sleep turned into a curious mix of anticipation and dread. Each night I tried to steel myself against whatever might come, but the moment I drifted off I felt it again. Soft footsteps behind me in the dark, a faint hum of a lullaby I used to love, and sometimes even a hand on my shoulder that vanished as soon as I turned. By morning I would sit up and jot every fragment into a journal on my bedside table. Flipping through those pages each entry felt like a piece of a puzzle I couldn’t yet solve – a whispered conversation I was only beginning to understand.

It wasn’t a nightmare. It felt almost peaceful, like being watched over. But that peace carried an impossible question: Who was this visitor? I mentioned it to a friend once, and she laughed, saying maybe I’d watched too many ghost movies before bed. I knew it was different. In each dream I felt as awake as I did when fully conscious, absorbing every laugh and whisper. At home, no one would have guessed – my parents saw me sleeping quietly, unaware of the company I kept at night.

One evening, I found myself staring at an old photograph of my sister and me. The picture was from childhood: summer dresses, water guns, and our matching grass-stained knees. My sister, with hair the color of sunlight, was in mid-laugh at something I’d said. I hadn’t looked at that photo in years, and yet here I was, tracing her smile with my fingertip. The memory of her flooded back suddenly, rushing into my chest.

I whispered into the quiet room, “Do you remember me too?” The house remained silent. I wondered if that question had reached her, somewhere beyond the thin veil of night.

That night, the dream began in the attic of my grandmother’s house – a place only she and I knew well. Dust motes danced in the shafts of moonlight coming through a round window. Something gleamed on a dusty trunk at the center of the room: my old music box. I opened the lid and a gentle tinkling melody began to play.

As the music filled the attic, a presence settled on the bed beside me. The pale light seemed to sculpt a figure who smiled at me with eyes I knew. I stayed very still, my heart pounding in my chest. Slowly, I reached out and gently touched her hand. We sat together listening to the melody, and I didn’t have to guess this time. It was Elena – my sister, gone too soon.

A single tear rolled down my cheek as I finally whispered, “I missed you.” She squeezed my hand comfortingly, and in her eyes I saw understanding. All the walls I had built since her passing began to crack and crumble in that moment. She wasn’t a ghost meant to scare me – she was a memory come to life, a warmth in the darkness. In that attic dream, my grief felt different. I didn’t want to wake up; I just wanted to stay and listen to the sound of her breathing beside me.

Eventually the music box’s tune slowed to a stop. Elena looked at me and, with a soft smile, said simply, “Thank you.” Her voice was like a fading echo from another life. I smiled back and whispered, “Thank you,” too. And in those two quiet words, I felt a piece of myself return.

I woke up to the cool morning light and noticed something inside me had changed. The sadness I’d been carrying felt a little lighter, like a bruise finally beginning to heal. I reached for my dream journal on the bedside table. The pages I filled that morning were no longer just hurried scribbles – they contained real words and sentences. It was as if my conversation from sleep had spilled onto the page. I traced the letters with my fingertip, feeling grateful for the visit.

Each dawn since has felt a little warmer. At night, when the house grows quiet and I lie in bed, I no longer dread falling asleep. Instead, I feel grateful for the company. Yes, someone is living in my dreams. But she has always been there, tucked away in a corner of my heart. Now, in the gentle glow of the dreamlight, she reminds me that we are never truly alone in the darkness.

What do you think—do our dreams hold pieces of ourselves or even those we’ve lost? Have you ever felt someone’s presence in your sleep?