The Dream of the Hug

Last night, I had a dream.
One of those dreams that are not just images, but encounters.
A dream that stays with you, that brings comfort, that transforms.

I was walking along the ridge of a mountain.
Suspended between sky and earth, between the thin air of the heights and the solid rock beneath my feet.
Then the path began to descend, and with a steady step I reached the base, where a lake awaited me.
Its waters were still, deep, silent. Like a mirror of the soul.

From the other side, a car was also coming down the mountain.
I saw it plunge into the lake, and without hesitation I rushed to save whoever was inside.
I reached the car. It didn’t sink.
I drove it myself to the opposite shore, moved by the urge to protect, to reach the other side, to leave no one behind.

And there, on the far shore, in a remote village that seemed outside of time and space, I sat down.
Emanuele came to visit me.
It was him.
My son.
Just as I remember him, just as he continues to live in my heart.
We hugged.
A full, real hug—one that spoke all the words we never had to say.
Emanuele, whom I hadn’t dreamed of in so long, had returned.

The night before, I had lit candles for him.
A small gesture, a light in the dark.
Perhaps it was that light that opened the door.
Perhaps it was love, which never fades.

I don’t know if this dream was a message, a memory, a visit.
But I do know it was real—in the way that only love can be real.
I know that hug will stay with me.
And that, even in the darkness, even when grief returns,
there is a remote village within me where we can still meet.

And there, whenever I need it, I will return