For twenty years, my husband never missed a single evening.
Every night, just before I went to bed, he would appear in the doorway carrying a delicate porcelain cup that released a faint fragrance of mint and chamomile.
“Your tea, darling,” he would say, his voice soft and reassuring.
“Your tea, darling,” he would say, his voice soft and reassuring.
I would smile, take it from his hands, and drink.
Within minutes, the world would blur at the edges. My thoughts would dissolve into mist. The last thing I’d see was his silhouette standing by the bed, always watching, always calm. Then darkness — thick, dreamless, absolute.
Or at least, that’s what I believed for twenty years.
The Dreams That Weren’t Dreams
Sometimes, through the fog, fragments would appear. Music. Laughter. The sound of clinking glasses echoing somewhere in the house. At times, I thought I heard voices — too many, too loud — but when I woke in the morning, the air was still, my home spotless.
Just dreams,” he’d tell me when I mentioned them. “You worry too much. That tea helps you sleep.”
I believed him. After all, why wouldn’t I? We had been married for decades. We had built a life together, weathered hardships, shared quiet evenings by the fire.
But the dreams began to change.
They became sharper, more vivid — not images but memories trying to claw their way out of the dark. Faces I didn’t recognize. My own reflection in a mirror, dressed in clothes I’d never worn. And the unsettling sense that something terrible was happening around me while I slept.
A Life in the Fog
I am seventy-seven years old now. For half a century, I remained silent — not because I lacked words, but because I doubted anyone would believe them.
