Between Worlds

I never considered myself particularly religious. Raised in a family that valued science and reason, I often found myself skeptical of the stories and beliefs that others held dear. However, a series of experiences changed my perspective on life and death, leading me to believe in something greater than what we can see or touch. This is my story.

My grandfather, Charles, was a staunch atheist throughout his life. Despite his claims, I always felt that he harbored a sliver of belief in something more. He often spoke about religion in a way that suggested a deep, albeit hidden, contemplation. As his health declined, he started experiencing strange phenomena that he couldn’t explain. A week before he passed away, he told me he could hear beautiful, divine music—a chorus that seemed to come from another realm. "Do you hear it, Emily?" he asked me, eyes wide with a mix of fear and awe. Not wanting him to feel isolated in his final days, I nodded, even though I heard nothing.

It wasn’t just the music. He also claimed to see a figure sitting by his bed, silently waiting. "Can you see him?" he would ask, his voice trembling. Again, I affirmed, though I saw no one. I assumed these were hallucinations, a common occurrence for those near death. Yet, something about the intensity of his experiences unsettled me.

Two days before he died, Charles had a moment of remarkable clarity. We often had deep conversations, and this time was no different. We discussed the soul, God, death, and the possibility of an afterlife. He proposed a pact: whoever died first would come to the other in a dream to reveal if there was life after death. I agreed, more to comfort him than anything else, and he seemed relieved. He fell asleep with a peaceful smile, and two days later, he was gone.

A couple of weeks after his passing, I had a dream. In it, I was walking down a country road lined with vibrant flowers. The light around me was bright but soothing, wrapping me in a warm embrace. As I walked, I saw a small white house surrounded by even more flowers. I knocked on the door, and my grandfather opened it. He looked happy and invited me in. Before I woke up, he asked me to make him a coffee. The dream felt so real, so vivid.

I told my grandmother, Helen, about the dream, hoping she could help me make sense of it. She started crying softly and told me that Charles always dreamed of buying a small white house in the country and planting lots of flowers. She also reminded me that he loved coffee but hadn’t been able to drink it for the last 30 years due to high blood pressure. It was then I understood: he had kept his promise and shown me that there was indeed life after death.

The next experience solidified my belief even further. Helen died a year after Charles. Shortly after her death, I had the same dream. The country road, the flowers, the small white house—it was all the same. This time, when I knocked on the door, my grandmother opened it. I saw my grandfather sitting in the background, reading a book. He looked up and said, "Your grandmother is good now that she is with me in our new house." The dream left me with an overwhelming sense of peace.

The third experience was the most poignant. My friend Sarah was just 25 when she succumbed to stage IV kidney failure. During her month-long stay in the hospital, she was terrified of dying. I did my best to reassure her, promising that once she got better, we’d go out and dance. She made me promise that after Christmas, we would go dancing. She died on a Saturday night.

That night, I had another dream. I found myself at a house in a town I didn’t recognize. I knocked on the door, and my grandfather answered. The house had no walls, only white sheets floating in the air, replacing them. Inside, I saw Sarah, wearing a hospital gown. She hugged me tightly and started dancing with me, tears streaming down her face. I wanted to ask why she was crying, but no words came out. We just danced. When I woke up, I knew she was gone.

These experiences have deeply impacted my view on life and death. I can’t provide scientific proof that there is an afterlife, but these dreams—these visits—have convinced me that there is something beyond this life. They have brought me comfort and a sense of peace, knowing that those I love are still out there, in some form, watching over me.

Some might say these dreams are just my mind's way of coping with grief, but I choose to believe they are messages from beyond. Charles, Helen, and Sarah all found a way to reach out to me, to let me know they are okay. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

In sharing my story, I hope to provide solace to others who might be grappling with loss. Whether you believe in an afterlife or not, the love we share with those who have passed continues to live on within us. And sometimes, in the quiet moments of our dreams, they come back to remind us that they are never truly gone.