Echoes of a Dream

In 1988, I met a man who I was convinced I would spend the rest of my life with. It wasn't just a feeling; it was a conviction etched deep into my soul, an unshakable certainty born from the dreams that had haunted me for a year before I ever saw his face. 

The first dream always began the same way: I was walking up several flights of stairs, each step echoing in an empty, shadowy stairwell. At the top, I would be met with a voice—his voice, though I didn’t know it at the time. The questions came fast, disjointed, and demanding, as though he were interrogating my very existence. “Who are you? What do you want? Why are you here?” I could never answer, my voice locked somewhere deep in my throat. Then the scene would shift abruptly. 

I would find myself on a train. The air was thick with the smell of metal and old upholstery. Across from me, a woman—a stranger with kind eyes—would lean over and smile. “Happy 18th birthday,” she’d say, her voice warm and conspiratorial. I always woke up confused by this. I wouldn’t turn 18 until 1991. 

The train would stop in Ljubljana. The city was eerily quiet, devoid of its usual hustle and bustle. A siren wailed in the distance, its mournful cry echoing through the empty streets. I tried calling my relatives, but none of the numbers worked. My desperation grew as I flipped through my blackbook, dialing every number I knew. Finally, I would reach him. His voice, calm yet tinged with an undercurrent of sadness, would say, “You can come over until you sort things out.” 

I would go to his place, and he would answer the door, walking in a strange zigzag pattern. “Are you drunk?” I’d ask, concern lacing my voice. 

He’d shake his head, a shadow crossing his face. “There’s something wrong with me. It’s going to get worse.” 

My heart would break then and there, and tears would spill down my cheeks. The dream would move forward in fragments: him in a wheelchair, his child perched on his lap, his eyes still bright but his body betraying him. And finally, the image of him, completely paralyzed, as I held his hand and whispered words I couldn’t remember upon waking. 

Then I met him in real life. 

It was a chance encounter at a café in the city. He was sitting by the window, a book in his hand, his expression contemplative. The moment our eyes met, I felt the air shift around me. It was as though the universe itself paused to acknowledge the weight of that moment. 

“Do I know you?” he asked when I approached, his voice exactly as it had been in my dreams. 

“I’m not sure,” I said, though I was very sure indeed. 

We talked for hours, and every word felt like a thread weaving us together. He was everything I had imagined—sharp, kind, with a quiet strength that drew me in. By the time we said goodbye, I was certain this was the man I had been dreaming about. The man I would one day marry. 

But reality has a way of unraveling even the most vivid dreams. 

We grew close over the following months. I learned about his love for classical music, his tendency to overanalyze everything, and the way his laughter could light up a room. I also learned about his past, his fears, and, eventually, his diagnosis. 

“Multiple sclerosis,” he said one evening, his voice steady but his hands trembling. “It’s early stages now, but it’s progressive.” 

I reached for his hand, my heart aching. “We’ll face it together,” I said, my words echoing the promises I had made in my dreams. 

But life is rarely as straightforward as dreams. A few months later, he met someone else. It wasn’t a betrayal, not really. She got pregnant, and he did what he felt was right. He married her. And just like that, my dreams—and the future I had imagined—were shattered. 

I tried to move on. I dated other people, threw myself into work, and tried to forget the man who had felt like destiny. But the dreams didn’t stop. They came less frequently, but when they did, they were as vivid as ever. The stairwell, the train, the empty streets of Ljubljana. The zigzag walk, the wheelchair, the paralysis. They haunted me, a constant reminder of what could have been. 

Years passed. I heard bits and pieces about him through mutual friends. His health was deteriorating, just as he had predicted. He had one child now and a wife who adored him. I told myself I was happy for him, but the dreams told a different story. 

When I found myself back in Ljubljana for the first time in years. The city had changed, yet it felt eerily familiar. As I walked through the streets, I found myself drawn to a small park. It was quiet, the kind of place where time seemed to stand still. And there, sitting on a bench, was him. 

He was in a wheelchair, just as I had seen in my dreams. His face was thinner, lined with age and struggle, but his eyes were still the same—bright and full of life. His child, a boy of about ten, was sitting next to him, laughing at something he had said. 

He saw me before I could turn away. 

“It’s been a long time,” he said, his voice warm but tinged with sadness. 

“It has,” I replied, my throat tight. 

We talked for a while, catching up on years of life that had taken us in different directions. He told me about his family, his work, and the ways he was learning to live with his condition. I told him about my travels, my career, and the man I was seeing. But there was an unspoken weight between us, a shared history that neither of us could fully articulate. 

As we said goodbye, he reached for my hand. “You’ve always been a part of me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Even if things didn’t work out the way we thought they would.” 

I nodded, tears blurring my vision. “You too.” 

As I walked away, I realized the dreams might never stop. But maybe they didn’t need to. They were a part of me, just as he was. And in some strange, inexplicable way, they had led me to where I was meant to be. 

That night, I dreamed again. The stairwell, the train, the empty streets. But this time, when I reached his door, I didn’t ask if he was drunk. I didn’t cry when he told me it would get worse. Instead, I smiled, took his hand, and said, “I’m here.”