After dreaming of her husband in a graveyard, June wakes to a chilling phone call—only to stumble upon a nightmare in her own backyard. As the line between dream and reality blurs, she must face love, loss, and a miracle that defies explanation.
That night, I dreamt in grey.
The air was heavy, thick with fog that pressed down like forgotten memories. I walked through a cemetery I didn’t recognize, but somehow my feet knew exactly where to go. Each step crunched over gravel. Somewhere in the distance, wind chimes rang, out of sync with time.
My heart pounded.
And then… I saw him. Wyatt. My husband.
He stood still beside a grave I couldn’t read, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his eyes fixed on mine. He didn’t speak. He just raised his hand in a slow, deliberate wave.
“Wyatt?” I called out, moving toward him. “What are you doing here?”
Before he could answer—
The ringing began.
I jolted awake, breath catching in my chest. His side of the bed was untouched—smooth and cold. I fumbled for my phone.
Unknown number.
“Hello?” My voice barely sounded like mine.
A woman answered, calm and clinical.
“I’m sorry to inform you, but your husband…”
The words hung in the air like smoke. My mouth went dry.
“What do you mean? Wyatt’s supposed to be home! He just worked a late shift…”
There was silence.
“I’m… sorry. I think I called the wrong number. Please forgive me.”
And she hung up.
I stared into the dark, heart racing, dread creeping up my spine. 4:17 A.M. No messages. No sign of Wyatt. I stumbled to the kitchen for water—anything to steady my trembling hands.
That’s when I saw him.
Through the window, under a bruised moon—Wyatt, floating face down in our backyard pool.
I couldn’t breathe.
For a split second, I was frozen. Then I exploded into motion. I tore open the sliding door and sprinted barefoot into the cold grass.
“Wyatt!” I screamed, falling to my knees at the pool’s edge. I plunged my arms in and dragged him out with everything I had.
He was ice. Lips blue. Silent. Still.
I called 911 with shaking hands, voice breaking as I sobbed, begging them to hurry. Then I started compressions.
“Come back to me, Wyatt. Please…”
I did CPR. Again. And again.
And then—he gasped.
Wet and broken and beautiful. He coughed, water spilling out, life clawing its way back in.
I collapsed against him, sobbing. Sirens screamed in the distance. Red and blue lights sliced through the night.
He was alive.
At the hospital, I sat shivering in the waiting room, my soaked sweater clinging to me like fear. Everything was too quiet. Too still.
Time didn’t move—it pulsed.
When the doctor finally approached, she looked worn but kind.
“He’s stable, June. You saved his life.”
I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“But we found something else—a serious heart condition. It’s probably been there for years.”
Her words floated past me. Then I heard it—the voice.
Familiar. So familiar.
The receptionist. The one who just spoke. I knew that voice. It was hers—the one from the call.
“You called me earlier,” I said, barely above a whisper.
She looked confused.
“No, ma’am. I’ve been here all night. You’re my last patient before I clock out.”
But the voice… it was her.
I felt the world shift.
Something had woken me. Pulled me from that dream. Made me look out that window. But what? Or who?
Whatever it was, it hadn’t come to take. It had come to warn.
Wyatt lay asleep, monitors blinking beside him. I kissed his forehead, whispered I’d be back, and wandered until I found the hospital cafeteria.
I bought coffee I wouldn’t drink and a muffin I wouldn’t eat. Just to feel normal. Just to feel something.
Eventually, I ended up in a quiet hallway. A sign read: Psychiatry & Counseling.
I knocked.
A kind-eyed woman let me in. I told her everything—the dream, the call, the pool, the voice, the miracle.
She didn’t flinch.
“June,” she said softly. “What happened to you was terrifying… and beautiful. Maybe it was your subconscious. Maybe it was something bigger. But maybe that part doesn’t matter.”
“How could I know?” I asked. “Before anything happened?”
“Because love does that,” she said. “Sometimes, it reaches across the veil, across time, across reason. You were never alone.”
And for the first time since it began, I let myself believe that might be true.
Later, Wyatt woke.
“June,” he whispered.
“I’m here,” I said, grabbing his hand.
He looked at me, eyes glassy.
“I remember… I was somewhere cold. Like I was being pulled. And then… I saw you. Crying. I couldn’t leave.”
I wept all over again.
That night, in a hospital bathroom, I collapsed. Cried for the version of him that didn’t come back. For the me who nearly drowned in that dream.
Then I remembered a conversation from months ago.
“If I die before you,” Wyatt had joked, “you better not meet someone else. I’ll haunt your butt.”
I’d laughed.
“You? A ghost?”
“I’d be annoying,” he grinned. “Flickering lights. Cold feet. Whatever it takes. I’d want you to save me. Even if I was already gone.”
Maybe… just maybe… that’s exactly what happened.
Wyatt sleeps beside me now, his hand in mine. We’ll face this together. Whatever it is. However long we get.
And maybe—just maybe—love really can scream loud enough to reach across the divide.
Because something woke me that night.
And it didn’t come for death.
It came for us.