But the real test was still pending. One night, I had the same dream again: a long hallway, a voice behind me, legs as heavy as stones. The only difference was that this time I didn’t fall. I stopped. I turned around. And I saw myself. I screamed and sat up. He woke up instantly.
“I saw something,” I whispered. He agreed. I knew it. It had to happen today or tomorrow. That night, what I feared happened. I woke up in a daze and walked towards the stairs, with my eyes open, unconscious. But this time, he was sitting in the chair. He stood in front of me.
“Stop,” he said. I stopped. He asked gently, “Are you afraid?” I nodded. He took my hand, firm but gentle. “I’m scared too,” he said. “And I’m still here.”
Something broke inside me, into pieces, wide open. I fell into his arms, or onto the ground. After that night, I started sleepwalking again. The doctors called it the last shock of the mind: fear versus security. Security won.
We sold the big house. My father’s treatment ended. We moved to a small town where nobody knew our names. No chairs. No doorbells. No guards. Just one bed and two people. For the first time, we both slept at the same time.
Years later, when he finally passed away in a peaceful sleep, I sat by his side and watched his breathing fade away. He was smiling. This time there was no fear. I knew it: the real danger had passed. The lesson was simple, but costly: Sometimes, the man who seems the strangest is the one who protects the most. And sometimes, the only way to face fear… is to take someone’s hand and stay together.
