The Last Ferry

I’ve never been one for recurring dreams, and I’ve certainly never had dreams about people I know, at least not with such vividness. But for the past month, my friend Marcus has been visiting me in my sleep. He died in a car accident last spring, and I’d like to say I’ve moved on, but his presence lingers. Last week, the dream changed.

I was standing on a wooden pier that stretched into a gray, placid lake. The sky was a muted pewter, and the water reflected a light that seemed to come from nowhere. Ahead of me, at the end of the pier, stood Marcus. He was wearing his usual denim jacket, but he looked younger, more at peace than I’d ever seen him. Beside him was a woman I didn’t recognize at first—her hair was long and dark, and she wore a simple floral dress. As I approached, I realized it was my grandmother, Elena. She had been bedridden for years, a shell of her former self, but here she stood tall and radiant, her eyes clear and bright.

Marcus smiled and gestured to her. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, his voice carrying across the still air. ‘She’s safe.’

I tried to speak, to ask what he meant, but the scene shifted. I was now in a dimly lit room, crowded with relatives I hadn’t seen in years. They were huddled together, whispering, their faces streaked with tears. My mother was there, clutching a tissue, her shoulders shaking. I tried to reach her, but my legs wouldn’t move, as if rooted to the floor. Then I woke up.

It was 11:30 in the morning, later than I usually slept, but I had no class until noon. I shook off the dream, attributing it to stress and a late-night horror movie. I went to the campus cafeteria, grabbed a sandwich, and sat by the window, watching the leaves fall. The dream nagged at me, but I pushed it away. After lunch, I called my mom, as I did every day. She answered on the second ring.

‘Hey, sweetie,’ she said, her voice strained. ‘I was just about to call you.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, my heart starting to race.

‘It’s Grandma,’ she said, and I heard her take a shaky breath. ‘She passed away this morning. Around 11:15.’

I felt the world tilt. 11:15. That was exactly when I had been dreaming of Marcus and her on the pier. I gripped the phone, trying to process. ‘How? She was… she was stable.’

‘It was sudden,’ Mom said. ‘A stroke. They think she went peacefully.’

I ended the call and sat there, staring at the half-eaten sandwich. The dream replayed in my mind: Marcus’s calm voice, my grandmother’s youthful face, his words: ‘Don’t worry, she’s safe.’ It felt less like a dream and more like a message.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my dorm, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Marcus. We had been best friends since childhood. He was the one who taught me to ride a bike, who stayed up with me during thunderstorms, who made me laugh until my sides hurt. When he died, I was devastated. I hadn’t dreamed of him until last week. And now, with my grandmother’s death, I wondered if he was some kind of guide, a ferryman for the dying.

A week passed. I flew home for the funeral. The service was at a small church, and afterward, we gathered at my aunt’s house. My relatives were huddled in the living room, their eyes red, whispering about the will and the house. I felt detached, as if I were watching from outside. My mother clutched a photo of Grandma, her hand trembling.

During the reception, I stepped into the backyard for air. The afternoon sun was weak, casting long shadows. I heard a familiar voice behind me.

‘Hey, you made it.’

I spun around. There, standing by the garden gate, was Marcus. He looked exactly as he had in the dream—young, healthy, wearing that same denim jacket. But he was solid, real.

‘You’re… you’re dead,’ I stammered.

He smiled. ‘I know. But you needed to see me.’

‘What is this? Am I dreaming?’

He shook his head. ‘No. This is real. Sort of.’ He stepped closer, and I noticed he cast no shadow. ‘Your grandmother is here, with me. She wanted me to tell you she’s okay.’

I felt tears welling up. ‘Why you? Why do you keep visiting me?’

He looked at me with a sad smile. ‘Because I’m the one who comes for them. I’m the ferryman now. When someone dies, I’m there to take them across. I never got to say goodbye to you, so I’m doing this.’

I opened my mouth to speak, but he raised a hand. ‘You don’t have to understand. Just know that she’s safe. And I’m here for you too, when your time comes.’

He began to fade, like mist in the sun. ‘Wait!’ I called out. ‘Will I see you again?’

He smiled. ‘Not for a long time. But I’ll be waiting.’ Then he was gone, leaving me alone in the garden.

I stood there for a long time, the cool breeze brushing my face. The dream had been real, but now I knew something else: Marcus was not just a memory. He was a guardian, a guide. And my grandmother was with him, safe.

I walked back inside, the laughter and tears of my family washing over me. My mother looked up, and I smiled at her, a genuine smile. ‘She’s okay,’ I said. ‘I know.’

She hugged me, and I held her tight. From that day on, I stopped fearing death. Instead, I imagined a wooden pier, a gray lake, and two smiling faces waiting for me on the other side.