The Woman from My Dreams — Then I Saw Her in Real Life

The Woman from My Dreams — Then I Saw Her in Real Life

It started with a dream.

Not the kind you forget by morning. Not the kind that fades with coffee.

This one stayed.

A woman — tall, graceful, dressed in deep blue. Her eyes were hauntingly sad, and there was a small scar just below her left eye. She never spoke loudly. Just whispered:

“Don’t trust the red door.”

I had never seen her before.

But she came again the next night.

And the next.

And for sixteen nights after that.

Always the same — she’d stand at the edge of a long hallway, in a place I didn't recognize, whisper the same words, and walk away.

I became obsessed.

I sketched her face in a notebook. I searched online for similar-looking people. I even tried lucid dreaming to speak to her, but every time I asked, “Who are you?” — the dream would collapse.

Until one Tuesday afternoon in March.

I was walking through an unfamiliar part of the city, taking a shortcut to a client’s office. The alley was narrow and quiet.

And then…

There she was.

Standing across the street.

Wearing a deep blue shawl.

Same eyes.

Same scar.

Frozen, I called out — “Excuse me!”

She turned. Our eyes met.

She smiled — not surprised, not shocked. As if she knew I’d find her.

And then she walked into a bookstore and disappeared.

I ran after her.

The store was… empty. No sign of her. No customers. The clerk looked confused when I described her.

“No one just came in, sir.”

I walked out, heart pounding.

That night, she didn’t appear in my dream.

For the first time in three weeks — nothing.

I felt something had changed.

The next few days, I began seeing strange things:

– My phone wallpaper changed to a hallway with a red door.

– A pigeon with a blue ribbon landed on my window — three times in one day.

– My roommate swore he heard a woman’s voice whispering in my room at 3:17 a.m.

Then, one night, the dream returned.

But this time it was different.

She was crying.

She said only one word:

“Run.”

I woke up gasping. The room was dark — but the hallway light was flickering. I got up, confused and terrified.

And then I saw the door.

In my own flat.

Painted red.

Freshly.

It wasn’t red yesterday.

My roommate swore he hadn’t done anything.

I didn’t open it.

I moved out the next day.

A few months later, I went back to the same alley, hoping to see her again. Nothing.

But as I passed the same bookstore, I saw something taped to the glass door:

“For lost dreams, follow the whisper.”

I still don’t know who she is. Or was. Or what she saved me from.

But I know she’s real.

Because dreams don’t paint doors in real life.