A Request from a Father

 

Sometimes, a single encounter can open the door to things far beyond what we can imagine.

 

A few days ago, while tidying my desk, I came across a small, forgotten note —a reminder to write about an event from 18 years ago. I couldn’t remember when I wrote that note, but the extraordinary experience is still vivid in my mind.

So, I started writing.

It was late 2007. I had recently started seeing someone and invited her to my place for dinner. We had a pleasant evening, enjoyed our meal, and talked for a while. Afterward, I felt sleepy and closed my eyes for a short moment. Suddenly, an image appeared in my mind: a man in his sixties standing on an empty theater stage. The scene was as vivid and detailed as a movie.

The man had curly white hair, slightly thinning at the top, and wore a white Roman-style cloak. He looked at me for a brief moment, then pointed toward the backstage area, as if to say someone wanted to meet me. No words were spoken; everything was communicated silently, through thought or presence.

Among all my previous experiences, this one was the most vivid. It was meaningful in a way that would later change the course of my life and my understanding of the invisible realms.

Softly, I said, “Let him come in.”

To my surprise, he seemed to hear me. The man in Roman clothing walked off to the right side of the stage and returned with another man dressed in a similar cloak. This second man appeared younger, perhaps in his late fifties, but unlike the first, he wasn’t calm or at ease. His face showed deep distress and sorrow. He moved his hands restlessly, trying to say something, but he was unable to.

I silently asked who he was. Although he didn’t communicate his message clearly, I sensed his desperation. At that time, my clairaudient perception was not yet well developed. His gestures became more intense. He pointed at me insistently, as if trying to communicate something he couldn’t say. The whole encounter lasted no more than a few seconds.

“I see a man in my mind,” I said to her calmly. “He’s pointing at me.” I wasn’t really trying to describe what I saw. It was more like an instinctive request for help.

“Really?” she said, thinking I was joking.

“Yes,” I said, “but I don’t understand what he wants. He looks very uneasy.”

She asked why the man was pointing at me, perhaps still half-thinking I was joking.

“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s just staring at me and pointing. He’s trying to say something, but nothing is clear.”

Her voice grew serious as she realized it wasn’t a joke, and she asked what he looked like.

“Thick black hair, round face, broad chest, a mustache…” I said. She asked more questions, and I answered each one of them.

“I feel he’s no longer alive,” I added after a pause.

There was a long silence after that.

Then I suddenly realized he wasn’t pointing at me; he was pointing at her. A sudden chill ran down my spine.

“I think he means you, not me,” I said. “He’s pointing at you. Do you have a relative who passed away and looks like the man I described?”

The moment I said that, she burst into tears and ran out of the room. I followed her. She was digging through her heavy bag, trying to pull out her laptop. Her hands were shaking as she tried to start it, sobbing uncontrollably. Back then, laptops took forever to start. I sat beside her and waited silently. Finally, she opened a photo folder and showed me a picture. “Is this him?” she asked, tears streaming down her face.

It was him — the exact man from my vision. I couldn’t speak for a while. My throat tightened.

“Who is he?” I finally managed to ask. I felt a deep sadness, and some tears fell.

“My father,” she said with a heartbreaking sigh.

Through her tears, her story poured out. She told me how, when she and her brother were children, her father had left the family to marry another woman. Her mother, wounded and furious, had forbidden them from ever speaking to him again. Influenced by her pain, they obeyed. Years passed, and they never saw him. Then he died, but they refused to attend the funeral. Since then, she had carried a deep emptiness inside.

Everything started to make sense. The father had been trying to reach his daughter all along. He hadn’t found peace after being rejected by his children, and now he wanted to end that long punishment. He had chosen me as the channel to deliver his message.

At that time, my abilities were limited. If it had happened today, I could have helped him release and move on easily. Back then, all I could do was convince her to visit his grave and say a proper farewell.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The image of the helpless father stayed with me — the years of waiting, the pain of rejection, the sorrow of the children, the mother’s anger, the broken family ties. All weighed heavily on my heart.

A few days later, she and her brother visited the cemetery together, where they finally said farewell to their father and offered their forgiveness.

After that day, we never met again. The experience had been emotionally overwhelming, and my task was complete. We exchanged a few messages over time but kept in touch at a distance. Years later, I contacted her again while writing this story. She told me she was living happily in a small village, raising her daughter.

Looking back, I realize this event marked the beginning of my healing journey — not only for the living but also for those who remain in the unseen. Eighteen years ago, my gifts were beginning to awaken, and I could do so little for that father. Today, I can bridge hidden realms with ease and confidence.

The father’s request for reconciliation wasn’t only a message to his daughter; it was also a message for me. That night ignited a lifelong mission: to heal the hidden, forgotten wounds that tie the living and the departed. In helping the father find peace, I discovered my own purpose. And perhaps, in that quiet way, we all found our peace.