I woke this morning with a weight on my chest—one of those uneasy mornings where dreams and memories blur. Though our flat in Manchester is always cold this time of year, I’d been sweating through my nightwear. I’d dreamt of Gran. My late Gran, Margaret Whitmore, with whom I spent the best summers of my childhood in her cottage near York. She sat by the hearth, the kind of warmth that sinks into your bones, watching me with quiet sadness.
*”Why haven’t you come to see me, love? Have you forgotten?”*
The guilt clung like a shadow. I turned to my husband, James, beside me. “*We’re going to the village today. To Gran’s grave.*”
He hesitated—snow was falling thickly outside, the roads treacherous—but didn’t argue. We packed quickly: a thermos, sandwiches, a blanket. The drive to the countryside took nearly four hours, the lanes slick and buried, but nothing would’ve stopped me.
At the churchyard, we trudged through deep drifts to her plot. My heart sank—a fallen birch lay across the headstone. We spent an hour clearing snow, tidying the grave. I lit a candle, whispered my goodbyes… then paused.
*”Let’s go to the cottage. Just to see it.”*
James agreed. We hadn’t been in over a year. I expected snow-drifted silence, frosted windows. But as we rounded the lane, the sight stunned us: smoke curled from the chimney, light glowed behind curtains, a path shoveled to the door. I braked hard.
*”Who’s there?”* James muttered.
We knocked. A young woman answered, a little girl peering from behind her. “*Hullo!*” the child chirped. The woman—Lydia—flushed when we introduced ourselves, ushering us inside.
The cottage was warm as my dream, the air rich with woodsmoke. Over tea, Lydia explained: her husband had died in a crash last year. The flat they’d mortgaged was too much to keep alone. She’d moved to her aunt’s village, only to find her aunt couldn’t take them in. “*She said cottages sit empty here… mentioned yours. I thought—perhaps you’d understand.*”
James met my gaze over his cup. I knew his thoughts.
*”Lydia,”* I said, *”stay. Just promise if we visit, you’ll put us up?”*
Her eyes welled. “*Anytime!*” The girl, Emily, grinned. “*Will you come in summer?*”
*”Whenever you ask,”* I said.
Driving home, my heart felt lighter than thistledown. I knew Gran saw us. Knew she approved. That night, she returned in my dreams—walking a woodland path, arm in mine, murmuring words I couldn’t recall upon waking. Only her smile remained, warm as always.
Perhaps some dreams are nudges from those we’ve loved. And perhaps the best way to honour them is to listen.