Fifteenth of October

This is a very personal journal entry of mine. It has haunted me since. This experience has made a corner of my mind it's home. I have never told my best friend of my dream, as I don't want to come off as attention seeking. I've never took pride in it. However, I have always been aware of a "sixth sense". It does not always work the way I want. Sometimes, I can feel the sorrow and worry of another, and I know the person these feelings belong to. Other times it is a lingering feeling of dread or depression for a couple of hours, with no insight as to who is hurt. With that being said, I hope this is enjoyed by those with creative minds. And as a reminder that when you feel strongly that someone is in pain or carrying a form of dread, call them. Do not push it away.

The canvas of sleep was black the night it came to me — patient and wordless, waiting for something unseen to fill it with meaning.

Then, without warning, I was there.

I crouched behind a throne of gold, massive as a monument, built for a king of giants or a god who had long since abandoned his seat. The air was thick and ancient. And ahead of us — wider than any building I had ever known, taller than the tree line — a golden sphinx sat in silence, watching everything and saying nothing.

She was beside me. Frightened. Her shoulder pressed against mine in the way that people press against each other when the world feels too large and too close all at once.

Then the sky decided.

The storm arrived the way ruin always does — faster than thought, louder than reason. The wind bent the world sideways. The rain fell like punishment. And somewhere behind it all, the ocean gathered itself into a wall and began to move toward us with the kind of quiet certainty that does not negotiate.

I held her.

I'm here, I told her. I will help you. I will save you.

Words I meant with everything I had. Words I did not yet know the cost of.

Then he appeared — the way people only appear in dreams and in miracles — standing between us and the water. Her brother. Solid. Present. As if he had stepped out of thin air just to place himself in the path of something enormous.

She screamed.

The sound broke through every layer of sleep I had. It was not a sound made of fear alone — it was something older than that. Something that knew.

The wave took him. And we ran.

And I awoke.

I have turned it over in my hands a thousand times since — that dream, that date, that distance of only three days. I have called it coincidence. I have called it the mind weaving random threads into false patterns. I have tried, more than once, to set it down and walk away from it.

But I cannot.

Because somewhere beneath the logic and the doubt, I believe something divine tried to reach me. Something pure and urgent pressed its hands against the glass of my sleeping mind and showed me what it could — a sphinx, a throne, a wave, a brother standing where no one should have to stand alone.

And I, unknowing, untrained in the language of visions, watched it all unfold like a story I didn't realize I was being asked to read.

The fifteenth of October, the dream came.

Three days later, he was gone.

I carry both dates now — one in each hand — and I am still learning what it means to hold them at the same time.