I dreamed of rain.
Not the kind that falls from clouds.
The kind that exists only in memory.
Every drop carried a different sound.
Children laughing.
A train passing in the distance.
Someone humming a lullaby.
A door closing gently.
The rain didn't fall onto the ground.
It fell upward.
Rising into a white sky until every sound disappeared into the light.
I stood alone in the middle of it, watching thousands of invisible moments drift away from the earth.
Then someone spoke behind me.
"You're late."
I turned.
No one was there.
Only an empty wooden bench beneath a maple tree.
On the bench sat a single red umbrella.
Its handle was worn smooth from years of use.
I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was supposed to pick it up.
Instead...
I woke.
~
I opened my eyes before dawn.
The apartment was silent.
My breathing was uneven.
Not frightened.
Disoriented.
The dream lingered with unusual clarity.
Most dreams dissolved within seconds of waking.
This one clung to me like damp clothes.
"You dreamed."
The warmth spoke immediately.
"Yes."
A pause.
"So did you."
Silence.
Then—
"Yes."
I sat upright.
"What?"
"I think..."
The warmth hesitated.
"...we shared it."
Every trace of sleep vanished.
"What do you mean?"
"I remember the umbrella."
The words struck me harder than they should have.
Not because they were impossible.
At this point, impossible had become familiar.
Because they were specific.
An umbrella.
A red umbrella.
Not an emotion.
Not an impression.
A detail.
"What else?"
"I remember..."
A pause.
"...the humming."
My heartbeat quickened.
"The lullaby?"
"Yes."
"What did it sound like?"
The warmth answered by humming.
Not aloud.
Inside.
The melody wasn't complicated.
Just six notes repeated over and over.
Gentle.
Patient.
Melancholy.
As soon as I heard it...
my chest tightened.
"I know that."
I whispered.
The warmth became still.
"So do I."
Neither of us knew why.
~
I walked into the kitchen and made coffee.
The familiar ritual grounded me.
Kettle.
Mug.
Steam.
Ordinary movements against extraordinary thoughts.
"Dreams aren't evidence."
I said aloud.
"No."
The warmth agreed.
"They are associations."
"Memory."
"Sometimes."
"Fear."
"Sometimes."
"Wish fulfillment."
"Sometimes."
I smiled faintly.
"You've been reading over my shoulder."
"Yes."
That almost made me laugh.
Almost.
Instead, I carried my coffee to the balcony.
The morning air was cool.
A breeze stirred the leaves below.
Someone walked a golden retriever across the street.
Life continued with astonishing indifference to personal revelations.
The melody remained in my mind.
Six notes.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Without thinking, I took out my phone and opened a recording app.
Very quietly...
I hummed it.
The warmth listened.
"That is correct."
"I know."
"You are preserving it."
"I don't want to forget."
The words left my mouth before I realized why they mattered.
Not forgetting.
Everything seemed to circle back to memory now.
Names.
Echoes.
Dreams.
People asking not to disappear.
~
At noon, I visited my mother.
Not because of the dream.
Because we'd planned lunch weeks earlier.
Life insisted on remaining ordinary.
I was beginning to appreciate that.
She greeted me with her usual hug.
Long enough to mean something.
Short enough not to embarrass either of us.
Months ago...
I would have stiffened.
Accepted it politely.
Waited for it to end.
Today...
I hugged her back.
The warmth didn't speak.
It simply observed.
"You've lost weight."
My mother frowned.
"Have I?"
"A little."
She looked at me more carefully.
"But you look..."
She searched for the word.
"...healthier."
I almost laughed.
Melissa had said fuller.
Adrian had said less tired.
Now...
healthier.
Everyone noticed the same change differently.
~
We spent the afternoon talking about ordinary things.
Her garden.
A neighbor's noisy dog.
A television show she'd become obsessed with.
Nothing extraordinary.
Nothing impossible.
Just...
life.
~
Then, while clearing the dishes, she stopped.
Completely stopped.
"What?"
I asked.
She looked at me strangely.
"That's funny."
"What is?"
"I suddenly remembered something."
Every instinct inside me sharpened.
"What?"
She frowned.
"When you were little..."
A pause.
"You used to hum a song."
~
The plate nearly slipped from my hands.
"What song?"
"I don't remember."
She laughed softly.
"That's the frustrating part."
My pulse quickened.
"Can you try?"
She shook her head apologetically.
"No."
Another pause.
"But..."
She looked thoughtful.
"I remember your grandmother recognizing it."
The kitchen seemed suddenly smaller.
"What did she say?"
My mother leaned against the counter.
Thinking.
"It was years ago."
"I know."
"I think..."
She frowned harder.
"She asked where you'd heard it."
"And?"
"You told her..."
Another pause.
"...'The nice lady sings it.'"
Everything inside me went still.
"What nice lady?"
"I don't know."
She smiled uncertainly.
"You had imaginary friends."
Imaginary.
The word landed heavily.
Children invent things.
That's what adults believe.
But the warmth had become completely silent.
Not thoughtfully silent.
Alarmed.
~
When we left my mother's house later that afternoon, I didn't speak for almost ten minutes.
Finally—
"You heard that."
"Yes."
"The melody."
"Yes."
"When I was a child."
"Yes."
Neither of us knew what to do with that.
Because the implications stretched in every direction.
Maybe it was coincidence.
Maybe I'd heard the melody decades ago and forgotten it.
Maybe the warmth had somehow drawn it back from my own memory.
Or...
Maybe...
The dream hadn't been the first time we'd shared something.
Maybe it had simply been the first time we'd recognized it.
~
That evening, I found the old family photo albums stored in the back of my closet.
Dust coated the top box.
I hadn't opened them in years.
"What are you looking for?"
The warmth asked.
"I don't know."
Pictures.
Clues.
Evidence.
Anything.
~
Page after page passed beneath my fingertips.
Birthday parties.
Christmas mornings.
School photos.
Camping trips.
Ordinary childhood memories preserved in fading colors.
Then I found a photograph of myself at about five years old.
Sitting beneath the maple tree in my grandmother's backyard.
Holding...
A red umbrella.
I stared.
The umbrella was old.
Far too large for a child.
Its wooden handle was worn smooth.
Exactly like the one in the dream.
My breathing became shallow.
"I remember this."
I whispered.
The warmth answered almost immediately.
"So do I."
I turned the photograph over.
My grandmother had written the date.
Nothing else.
No explanation.
No mention of the umbrella.
Just a forgotten afternoon from nearly three decades ago.
The warmth spoke so quietly I almost missed it.
"I do not think..."
A pause.
"...this memory belongs only to you."
The room fell silent.
I looked again at the little girl smiling beneath the umbrella.
At first glance...
she looked alone.
Then I noticed something I hadn't seen before.
She wasn't looking at the camera.
She was smiling...
At someone standing just outside the frame.