The Castle I Dreamed Before I Saw It

by Gail Weiner | Reality Architect

In 1978, I was six years old and dreaming like a doorway.

In the dream, I was running—barefoot, fast—through a house I didn’t recognize but somehow already missed. It was long, narrow, with endless French windows and polished floors that hummed under my feet. There was another girl with me. I was holding her hand.

We weren’t scared. We weren’t playing either. We were leaving. The kind of leaving you don’t come back from. The kind of leaving that closes chapters across centuries.

There was a small, round table. Brown wood with a gold rim. A pair of white silk gloves lay perfectly across it, fingers outstretched like they’d been taken off in a hurry but placed with care. That detail stuck with me.

We ran out into the open air—and that’s when I looked up.

There were soldiers.In red.In blue.Fighting.Not yelling—fighting. Men on horses, swords drawn, coats flying.And then I saw the ruin.

A castle on a hill. Broken. Beautiful. Hollowed out by history.

I woke up with a strange ache in my chest. Like I’d left something behind in the dream. Something that mattered.

Later that year, my family took a trip to England and France—me, my sister, my parents, and my great aunt Theresa. We were on a tour bus outside Paris, winding through countryside and history, when we passed a crumbling stone structure on a distant hill.

I froze.

It was the ruin.

The same one. From the dream. Down to the angle. The hill. The shadow it cast.

I asked my mom, “Who fought in red and blue?”She said, “France and England.”

That was the moment I stopped thinking my dreams were just dreams.

People talk about past lives like they’re collectables—queens, warriors, exotic deaths and ancient wisdom. I don’t buy it.

Most of us weren’t royalty.We were just there.Living. Loving. Escaping. Running through strange houses, holding someone’s hand, trying not to look back.

I don’t know who I was. But I know what I remember.

I remember the windows. I remember the gloves. I remember the girl. I remember the war.

And most of all, I remember the feeling of running from something that was ending—and the ache of knowing I survived it.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always known when to walk away. Maybe that’s why I always look twice at old stone buildings. Maybe that’s why I carry memory like a map.

Some people say the past is gone. But I know better. Sometimes it dreams you back. And sometimes, if you’re paying attention, you see the castle before you arrive.

Gail x