I dreamt in shades of grey that night.
The air was heavy, thick with fog, clinging to my skin like a memory I couldn’t shake. I found myself walking through a cemetery I didn’t recognize, though my feet seemed to know where to go. The crunch of gravel underfoot felt strange, like I was walking on the edge of something important, something I had to understand. Nearby, wind chimes clinked, their sound out of rhythm, like a song lost in the wind.
My heart thudded in my chest, louder than the chimes, louder than the wind.
And then I saw him.
Wyatt. My husband.
He stood by a grave I couldn’t read, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. His eyes were locked on mine, intense and silent. He didn’t need to speak. He just lifted one hand and waved, slow and deliberate, as if to say goodbye.
“Wyatt?” I called, stepping closer, the fog wrapping around me like a barrier. “What are you doing here?”
But before he could answer, the ringing began.
I gasped awake, my heart racing as I scanned the dark room. Wyatt wasn’t beside me. His side of the bed was cold, untouched. Panic set in as I reached for my phone, my hands shaking between sleep and terror.
The screen lit up with an unknown number.
“Hello?” My voice was barely my own, thin with dread.
A woman’s voice, cold and clinical, came through the line.
“Good evening, ma’am. I’m sorry to inform you, but your husband—”
The words hovered, like fog in my throat. My stomach churned.
“What? What do you mean? Wyatt’s supposed to be home. He worked the late shift… but he should be home by now!” My voice cracked, desperation creeping in.
“I… I’m so sorry. I believe I’ve called the wrong number. Please forgive me,” she paused, her voice colder now, almost apologetic.
Then she hung up before I could ask anything else.
I sat frozen, my breath shallow, my mind racing. It was 4:17 A.M. Wyatt’s shift had ended an hour ago. No call, no message. I swung my legs out of bed, desperate for something to ground me. Water. Anything to stop my hands from shaking.
I needed to make sense of it. I couldn’t.
Then I saw him.
Through the kitchen window, the pale moonlight caught something wrong. Wyatt was floating, face down, in the backyard pool.
My scream was trapped in my throat.
I couldn’t breathe. My limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. But instinct kicked in, hard. I ripped open the sliding door, its metal frame crashing against the wall, and I ran. Barefoot, the cold grass slicing against my skin, I didn’t think. I just ran.
Wyatt. Floating. Still. Silent. Wrong.
“No, no, no, Wyatt!” I screamed, my voice cracking as I fell to my knees at the edge of the pool. My fingers fumbled with my phone, my hands slick with panic. I hit 911 after what felt like forever.
“Emergency services, what’s your emergency?”
“My husband! He’s not breathing! He’s in the pool! I need an ambulance—now!” I sobbed, the words tumbling out in broken gasps. I put the phone on speaker and threw myself into the water, reaching for him.
He was too heavy. Too lifeless. It felt like I was dragging him from a place I couldn’t follow.
His body hit the ground with a sickening thud. His skin was icy, his lips an unnatural blue. His chest didn’t rise. His eyes didn’t flutter.
“No! Wyatt! Please, don’t leave me!” I screamed, my hands trembling as I started chest compressions, slipping in the water.
“One, two, three, four… come back to me! Please, Wyatt!” I screamed.
Mouth-to-mouth. Nothing. Again.
I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop.
“Please! My love! Don’t leave me!”
The world went silent.
And then, a sound—a gasp. Wet, broken, but real.
Wyatt sputtered, coughed, water pouring from his mouth as his body jerked back to life. I sobbed, collapsing onto him, my forehead pressed against his chest. The sound of sirens grew louder, red and blue lights flashing, filling the night.
He was alive. My husband was alive.
At the hospital, the waiting room was too quiet. The walls felt like they were closing in on me. The cold tiles bit through the soles of my shoes, the air thick with fear. Time stood still, every second stretched into eternity. I held myself, trying to fight off the trembling that had taken over my body.
A doctor finally appeared, her face tired, but her eyes held kindness, something that cut through the fog of fear.
“He’s stable, June,” she said softly. “You saved his life.”
I exhaled, but it was more like a shudder than a breath of relief.
“But,” she continued, pausing as though the next words were harder to say. “We found something else. Your husband has a serious heart condition. It’s likely gone undetected for years.”
I nodded, but the words didn’t settle. They hung in the air, heavy.
“He’s lucky you acted when you did,” she added.
Lucky. Lucky…
I stood, my legs moving on their own, like a puppet on strings. I drifted to the reception desk, asking for water, my voice barely a whisper. As the receptionist turned away, I froze.
It was her. The same voice. The one from the call.
“You called me earlier,” I said, the words thick in my throat. “About my husband…”
The woman turned to face me, her voice steady and warm, nothing like the cold, sterile tone from the call. “I didn’t make any calls, ma’am. I’ve been here all night. Just finished a twelve-hour shift. Your husband’s my last patient before I head home.”
I stared at her, trying to make sense of it. Her voice, so familiar, yet softer now, warmer, real. My skin prickled.
What had woken me? What had pulled me from that dream? What had warned me? Why her voice?
It wasn’t fear I felt now. It was awe. Something had come for me in the dark. And it hadn’t come to take. It had come to save.
Wyatt was still asleep, hooked up to monitors that blinked a steady rhythm. I kissed his forehead softly, promising I’d be back, and slipped out of the room.
The hospital was eerily quiet. The corridors felt like a different world, dim and still. I wandered until I found the cafeteria. It was almost closed, but there was enough to get a cup of lukewarm coffee and a muffin that I didn’t plan to eat. It wasn’t the food that mattered. It was the feeling of something ordinary. Of grounding myself again.
I sat by the window, staring out at the streetlights, watching the world turn without me.
The quiet didn’t last.
My feet moved without thought, leading me down a hallway I hadn’t planned to take. The sign above read: Psychiatry & Counselling.
It felt like exactly where I needed to be.
I knocked on the door of the only office with a light on. A middle-aged woman with kind eyes looked up as she opened it.
“Can I help you?” she asked gently.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I think I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Come in.”
I told her everything. The dream. The call. Wyatt in the pool. The receptionist’s voice. The warning. I spoke through the tears, through the shaking in my chest.
When I finished, she didn’t laugh. She didn’t flinch. She just looked at me with the same kindness in her eyes.
“June,” she said slowly, “what happened to you… it was terrifying, and beautiful. I can’t say it was a guardian angel or just your intuition. But maybe it doesn’t matter.”
“But how could I know?” I asked, voice breaking. “Before anything even happened?”
“Because love does that, June,” she replied simply. “Sometimes your mind knows things before your body does. Maybe your subconscious sensed it. And maybe… something else did too.”
I stared at her, tears streaming down my face.
“You were never alone,” she added softly.
For the first time in hours, I allowed myself to believe her.
I left her office feeling lighter, even if I didn’t understand it all. Wyatt was alive. And I was still here.
I walked the hospital halls in a daze, clutching my cold coffee. When I reached Wyatt’s room, I froze.
The heart monitor beeped steadily. His chest rose, slow but steady. Then, his eyes flickered open.
“June…” he whispered, his voice fragile.
I dropped my coffee, but it didn’t matter.
“I’m here,” I whispered, rushing to his side, squeezing his hand. “I’m here.”
“You pulled me out?” he asked, his voice hoarse and confused.
I nodded, tears already spilling.
“I remember…” he paused, swallowing hard. “I was somewhere cold. It felt like I was being called. Like something was pulling me.”
My heart stopped.
“I turned around,” he continued, “and I saw you. Not clearly, but like a shadow of you. You were crying. And I couldn’t leave you.”
I held his hand tighter, afraid the memory might pull him back to the darkness.
Later, after they sedated him to rest, I locked myself in the nearest bathroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, seeing a version of myself I didn’t recognize—eyes wild, lips cracked, the woman who had almost lost everything.
And I cried.
Not quietly. Not gently.
I cried for what I’d almost lost. For the man who almost didn’t make it. For the woman I almost became. For the dream that felt so real.
And when the tears slowed, a memory came rushing back.
A few months ago, Wyatt had leaned against the kitchen counter while I stirred pasta.
“If I ever die before you,” he’d said casually, “you better not meet anyone else. I swear I’ll haunt your butt.”
“You? A ghost?” I’d laughed.
“I’d be the most annoying one. Flickering lights, cold toes… the works.”
“Why?” I’d asked, amused.
“Because you’re mine,” he grinned. “And I’d want you to save me. Even if I was already gone.”
I’d rolled my eyes, told him to stop being morbid. But now, that offhand joke felt like a weight in my chest.
Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe he really did have one foot in the grave. Maybe I really did save him.
And maybe love… love really is loud enough to scream across worlds.
Wyatt sleeps now, safe in a hospital bed, his hand curled in mine like nothing else matters. Maybe nothing does.
We’ll fight for his life. But I know one thing for sure: this is a miracle. And I can’t call it anything else.
