For seven nights in a row, I had the same nightmare.
In the dream, it was raining on an old street, and a car was speeding toward my nine-year-old daughter.
On the morning of the seventh day, my daughter came back from outside with a book that had no title.
A line slowly appeared on the page:
“March 20. Rain. The old place.”
I frantically searched for that street.
Then I discovered I had been there eighty years ago.
And the woman waiting on that old street had been waiting for me her whole life.
My daughter said, “Don’t be afraid, Dad. I’ll help you find it.”
But she didn’t know
I was searching for myself.
