Doreen E Nicolaysen
Helena was a woman of dreams—both the kind that filled her nights and the ones that shaped her days. From the time she was a child in post-war Europe, she carried within her a gift, or perhaps a burden, of dreaming in layers. Her sleep was never just rest; it was a journey, a dialogue with something unseen, a whisper from the past or a warning of what was to come.
Her family learned early that when Helena dreamed, they listened. Her children could not deny that some part of her gift had settled into them. Perhaps not as vividly, not as urgently, but there was a knowing, a sense that dreams were more than just the mind’s wanderings. Some saw glimpses of what was ahead; others found comfort in dreams of those they had lost. And now, her grandchildren, too, have begun to notice the strange inheritance Helena left behind. A dream here, a feeling there—little echoes of her, passed down through blood and time.
Even now, she lingers in the dreams of those who loved her. They wake with the certainty that she has visited, whispered something just beyond memory’s reach. And somewhere, in the quiet of the night, Helena still dreams.