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.