A Voice I Only Hear in Dreams

I first heard her voice in a dream. It wasn’t a whisper or a shout, but something in between—soft and clear, like a melody drifting across a quiet room. I woke up with the sound still humming in my ears, but when I reached for it in the waking world, it slipped away like smoke through my fingers. The memory of that voice clung to me, fragile and elusive, like a secret waiting just beyond reach.

Her voice was unfamiliar, yet achingly familiar, like a half-remembered lullaby sung in a language I couldn’t place but somehow understood. It carried a warmth I hadn’t realized I was missing—a kind of comfort I had never known I craved. Night after night, I tried to catch it again. I would close my eyes tight, hold my breath, willing sleep to bring her back. Sometimes the voice came, soft and distant, barely touching the edges of my dreams. Other times, it was gone, leaving behind a hollow silence that echoed too loudly. But every time it appeared, it felt like a key—an invitation to unlock something buried deep inside me.

I began to wonder: Who did this voice belong to? Was it a guardian angel calling out from some unseen place? A fragment of a childhood memory long forgotten? Or perhaps it was a lost piece of myself, a part of my soul trying to remember what it once knew?

My days grew restless. The voice haunted me not only in sleep but in waking moments too. I found myself gazing upward, searching the sky for answers, listening closely to the rustling wind in the trees outside my window, hoping for another glimpse, another whisper. It was as if the voice called to me through the thin veil separating sleep and wakefulness, pulling me toward something I couldn’t yet name—a place I hadn’t yet found.

One evening, exhausted from chasing these ghosts, I sat by the window, staring out at the city lights flickering like fireflies in the dark. The night was still except for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional call of a lonely night bird. Just as I was about to give up hope, the voice returned—clearer this time, stronger, speaking words I couldn’t understand but felt deep in my bones. It was like the voice had found a way to bridge time and space, to cross through years and memories, and touch the core of my being.

I closed my eyes and let the sound wash over me, the melody wrapping around me like a soft blanket. When I opened them again, a memory sparked inside me, flickering to life like an old film reel. I saw a small garden bathed in golden sunlight, the grass a soft carpet beneath me. I was a child again, sitting quietly on the earth, and beside me was an older woman with kind eyes and silver hair, her lips moving as she sang. Her voice was the very same one from my dreams—gentle, unwavering, full of love and stories.

I blinked, trying to shake off the memory like a fading mist, but the warmth it left behind lingered in my chest. The feeling was unmistakable—safety, love, and a deep connection that transcended time.

The next day, driven by a new urgency, I began asking questions. My mother told me about my grandmother, a woman I barely remembered but who had once filled our home with song. She sang lullabies in a language I didn’t understand, songs passed down through generations—tunes woven with stories of hope, resilience, and love. My mother said my grandmother’s voice was a rare gift that calmed storms—both the wild ones outside and the quiet ones inside.

Could it be? The voice I heard in my dreams was hers? A tether from the past reaching across time to find me, to remind me that I was never truly alone?

I searched through old boxes, piles of forgotten memories tucked away in dusty corners of the attic. Beneath the stairs, hidden beneath yellowed papers and brittle photographs, I found a worn cassette tape labeled simply: “Songs for the Children.” My hands trembled as I carried it downstairs, the weight of history heavy in my fingers. Placing it carefully in an old tape player, I pressed play.

The tape crackled and hissed, then there it was—her voice. Gentle, strong, and alive. The same voice that haunted my dreams, now singing softly into the quiet room. Tears streamed down my face as I listened. I wasn’t alone. She had never truly left me. Her voice was a bridge—connecting me to a lineage of love, courage, and resilience I had forgotten but still carried within me.

From that day forward, her voice returned often—not just in dreams, but in moments when I least expected it. In the rustling of leaves on a windy afternoon, in the gentle patter of rain against the windowpane, in the hush of twilight as the world held its breath. I learned to listen—to really listen—and in those moments, I found peace.

Because sometimes, the voices we think are lost live on quietly, waiting in the corners of our hearts, ready to be found again. Sometimes, all it takes to hear them is to dream.

And sometimes, a voice from long ago is the most beautiful gift we ever receive.