The January Visitor

I arrived in Montreal for the first time in mid-January, a stop on my tour as a session guitarist. The city was a frozen labyrinth of snowbanks and steam rising from manhole covers, and the cold had a way of seeping into your bones. On the third night, after a rehearsal in a converted warehouse, I fell into a restless sleep in my hotel room overlooking the old port.

In the dream, I was standing alone in Place Jacques-Cartier, a square that in winter was usually empty. But this was not the bustling summer square I’d seen in photos; it was a vast, white expanse, the cobblestones buried under pristine snow, and the lamplights cast long, lonely shadows. It was 3 a.m., and the silence was so profound I could hear my own heartbeat. A profound dread gripped me: I was the last person on Earth. The absence of life, the suffocating stillness, it was as if the world itself had forgotten me.

Then, from behind a snow-covered statue of Admiral Nelson, a figure emerged. He walked with a measured, unhurried grace, his footsteps leaving no imprint on the snow. As he approached, I recognized him—a famous old-time radio personality from the 1950s, a man with a voice that had been a fixture in my grandmother’s kitchen, a face I’d only seen in grainy black-and-white photos. He had been dead for decades. He came to a stop in front of me, a warm smile on his weathered face, and said, ‘Hello, I’ve been waiting for you.’ There was no menace in his voice, only a kind of sad familiarity. He gestured with his hand, and we began to walk side by side through the frozen square.

I woke with a start, the dream still vivid. The oddness of it lingered, but I chalked it up to jet lag and the city’s strange energy. That afternoon, I decided to visit the Plateau, a neighborhood known for its colorful houses and trendy cafés. I wandered through the winding streets, the snow crunching under my boots, the cold biting my cheeks. After a couple of hours, my legs grew tired, and I found myself on the steps of an old, weathered brownstone on a quiet side street. The building’s facade was a mix of brick and stone, its windows dark, as if abandoned. I sat down to catch my breath, and I pulled out my phone to search for a coffee shop. That’s when I heard it—a faint, familiar tune from a distant era, the theme from the old radio show I’d dreamt about. I looked up, and across the street, a man stood on the steps of another brownstone, watching me. He was wearing a vintage overcoat and a fedora, and his face was half-hidden in the shadow of the brim. But I knew that face.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I told myself it was a coincidence, a street performer or a historian. But he raised his hand in a slow, deliberate wave, and then he turned and walked into the shadow of the doorway, dissolving into the darkness. I jumped to my feet, my breath fogging in the air. I wanted to follow, but my legs wouldn’t move. The man vanished, and the street was empty. I forced myself to laugh it off, to think I was still half-dreaming.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the dream and the encounter. The next day, I decided to go to the old Mount Royal Cemetery, a place I’d heard was beautiful even in winter. As I walked among the snow-draped tombstones, I felt a strange pull towards a particular plot. There, as if waiting for me, was a modest gravestone. The name inscribed on it was the same as the radio personality, with the dates of his birth and death. I knelt down and brushed away the snow, revealing the same smile from my dream, etched into the stone. A chill ran down my spine, not from the cold.

I returned to my hotel, shaken. I tried to tell myself it was just a coincidence, that I must have subconsciously seen his name somewhere and my mind had crafted the dream. But that night, the dream returned. I was back in that empty square, but this time, the man was more solid, his voice more distinct. He said, ‘You’re the first to ever come back.’ I asked, ‘Come back where?’ He just smiled and pointed to a door that hadn’t been there before, a door in the side of a building that looked like a wooden portal from a century ago. The door was slightly ajar, and warm light spilled through the crack.

I woke with the image burned into my mind. The next morning, as I walked through the streets, I found myself in front of that same brownstone from my first encounter. I’d never intended to return there, but my feet had carried me. The door—the same style as in the dream—was now visible, though I could have sworn it hadn’t been there before. It was slightly open, and a sliver of warm light glowed from within. Without thinking, I pushed it open. Inside, it was not a dark interior, but a cozy, warmly lit room that seemed to belong to a bygone era. There were velvet chairs, a crackling fireplace, and shelves of dusty books. In the center of the room, sitting in an armchair, was the man.

He looked up at me and smiled, the same smile as the dream. ‘You found it,’ he said. ‘I knew you would. This is the archive, the place where I keep all the voices that have crossed over. You’re the only one who can hear them now.’ He gestured to a row of old reel-to-reel tapes on a shelf. ‘These are the last recordings of those who faded away. They need a listener.’ A cold dread wrapped around me, and I realized that I wasn’t just a tourist lost in a city; I was a chosen listener, bound to the dead. I turned to run, but the door behind me was gone. The man’s voice echoed, ‘You’ll be back. They always come back.’ And I knew, with terrifying certainty, that I was not the last person on Earth—I was simply the last one who could hear them. As I write this, I am still in Montreal, and every night, I hear the faint strains of that old radio theme, and I know the door will open again.