**A Warning from the Dream: The Story That Changed Everything**
I was in the middle of pickling mushrooms when the doorbell rang. My husband, James, wasn’t home—he’d gone off on business and taken his keys with him. Only our daughter, Poppy, and I were in the house. “Who could that be?” I muttered, drying my hands as I went to answer.
On the doorstep stood a boy, about ten years old. A stranger. Neatly dressed, with a backpack slung over his shoulder, his eyes oddly serious for his age.
“Good afternoon,” he said politely. “I need to speak to your husband. Is he home?”
I was taken aback. “Hello. No, he isn’t here at the moment. Can I help with something?”
“No. Only him. It’s important.”
Something about his tone made my chest tighten. I didn’t know what to say.
“I’ll come back later,” he said. “When does he usually get home?”
“He’s in and out. Who are you, anyway? What’s this about?”
“Nothing yet. But it might be. Goodbye.”
I watched him walk away, baffled. Why would this boy need James? And how did he even know him? The rest of the day, I couldn’t shake the unease. That evening, when James returned, I told him straight away.
“A boy came by today—ten years old, maybe. Said he urgently needed to speak to you. Wouldn’t say why.”
“What nonsense? I don’t know any boy. Must’ve got the wrong house.”
“No, he said your name clearly. Insisted it had to be you.”
James shrugged and headed for the shower. But my mind raced. Who was this child? Could he be… an illegitimate son? James had had other women before me—one name in particular flashed through my thoughts: Eleanor. He’d nearly married her once. What if she’d gotten pregnant and never told him?
The next day, I cautiously asked, “James, do you ever think about that woman you almost married? Eleanor, wasn’t it?”
“Why bring that up? Old history. Forget her.”
“Just curious. You know about my exes. I don’t know much about yours.”
I searched for Eleanor online, but her surname had likely changed—nothing turned up. All I could do was wait to see if the boy returned.
A few days later, James announced a sudden business trip.
“Just to the next town over. No one else would go, so Owens asked me.”
Something about it didn’t sit right. James hadn’t traveled for work in ages. The boy’s words haunted me: *Something might happen.* My gut screamed that something was wrong.
Then, the night before James was due to leave, the boy knocked again. This time, I pulled him inside.
“Tell me what you have to say,” I urged. “I’m his wife—I’ll make sure he hears it. What’s your name?”
“Oliver. My mum… she told me in a dream. She said your husband mustn’t go. If he does, he won’t come back.”
I went cold. “Oliver, what are you talking about? Your mum—where is she?”
“She died five years ago. But she comes to me in dreams. Warns me. My nan says we’re connected… Mum loved me so much. I never met my dad. But lately, she’s been dreaming of me a lot. Gave me this address. Said only *he* needed to know.”
I couldn’t speak. Fear slithered up my spine.
“Do you know who he is to your mum?”
“No. But she said he can’t go. No matter what.”
After he left, panic settled in my chest. I didn’t believe in ghostly warnings… but this was too precise to ignore.
The next day, James set off. I busied myself, trying not to dwell on it. Then, after lunch, the phone rang.
“Emma, don’t panic… I’m all right. But something… strange happened.”
“What? What happened?”
“I was driving. Had music on. Then suddenly, a woman stepped into the road out of nowhere. I swerved, hit the barrier… but the car ahead of me—it flipped. Total wreck. People died… I should’ve been in that spot.”
“Oh God.”
“I don’t know who she was. Just appeared… then vanished. If not for her, I’d be gone.”
When James got home that evening, I told him about Oliver.
“You don’t think it could’ve been… that woman? Oliver’s mum?”
“Emma… that’s wild. Just a coincidence.”
“It’s not. I *feel* it.”
The next morning, James froze at breakfast, his face pale.
“I remember now. Five years ago, I passed a burning house. Everyone stood back, too afraid to go in. But I ran inside. Pulled a boy out. His mother… didn’t make it.”
We went to the address Oliver had given. His grandmother answered.
“Yes, he lives here. My grandson. His mum died in that fire. *You* saved him. I’ve always been grateful… He doesn’t remember much. Just the photos. But she visits his dreams. Never mine.”
“She saved *me*.”
“Jane was always different. Here—see for yourself.”
She handed me a photo. James went rigid. It was her. The woman from the road.
Then Oliver walked in.
“Hello. Mum says you’re safe now. She’s happy. But you must never drive that road again—she won’t be there next time. Promise me.”
“Thank you, Oliver. And thank your mum. Do you want to be friends? I’ve got a little girl—too small for fishing yet. But you and I could go. Football too, whatever you like. What do you say?”
Oliver nodded shyly. I cried then—for the mercy of fate, for the fragile threads between life and death, and for the humbling truth that even dreams can be warnings worth heeding.
