My dad wasted away from esophageal cancer. For two whole years, not a single bite of food passed his lips. By the end, he was nothing but a skeleton draped in skin. The first New Year's after he passed, he came to my mom in a dream. “Helen, my love, I’m starving. All I want is a taste of your spicy stir-fried heart.” My mom immediately cooked up a huge platter and brought it to his grave. The next day, she had a massive heart attack and died on the spot. I was heartbroken. My wife and I arranged my mother’s funeral. That night, my wife, Kate, also dreamed of my dad. “My dear daughter-in-law, Dad hasn’t eaten in so long. I’m craving your braised liver, with a good, strong whiskey.” Kate woke up, bought ten pounds of liver, and spent the morning cooking. She drove to the cemetery with the food and a bottle of expensive single malt. She came home and was rushed to the ICU with acute cirrhosis. Three days later, she was gone. I was drowning in a sea of grief. I asked my best friend to look after our daughter, Mia, while I handled the arrangements alone. But Mia vanished after school. I went half-mad with panic, finally finding her on the road leading to the cemetery. She was holding a large cup of spicy noodle soup, with pale, spongy pieces of pork lung floating on top. “Daddy, Grandpa and I used to eat here all the time. I dreamed he was hungry.” I snapped. I smacked the cup from her hands, the fiery broth splashing across the asphalt, and dragged her home. That night, I dreamed of my dad, too. “Son, my life was agony. Have pity on your old man.” “New Year’s Eve is the day after tomorrow. I’m coming home for dinner. Remember… you have to make fish!” I woke up in a cold sweat, clutching my daughter. For two full days, we sat in front of the three photographs on the mantel—my dad, my mom, my wife. We didn’t eat or drink. On New Year’s Day, I awoke to find my daughter breathless beside me. Her small hand was still clutching a half-eaten bag of spicy fish jerky. I couldn’t understand. I held her tiny body and screamed until my throat was raw, then I walked to the roof of our apartment building and stepped off the edge. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back to the day my mom, her eyes red with grief, told me she was going to buy pig's heart. … Just like last time, my mom, Helen, packed up a container of spicy stir-fried heart and started for the door. “Mom!” I shrieked, my voice cracking. “You can’t eat pig's heart today!” Her hand trembled, spilling some of the sauce. Her eyes welled up. “Leo, it’s not for me. It’s for your father.” “He was crying in my dream, said he was starving, just desperate for a taste of this,” she pleaded, her voice thick with sorrow. “The man starved to death, Leo. He’s a hungry ghost. Can’t you just grant him this one wish?” Ignoring her shocked expression, I snatched the container from her hand, dumped the contents onto a cutting board, and hacked them to pieces with a cleaver. Then, I washed every last bit down the drain. “No one touches pig's heart today!” I declared, my voice shaking. “What’s gotten into you? Your father adored you more than anyone!” Thump. I dropped to my knees before her, grabbing her legs and wailing. “Mom, I’m begging you. Please, just visit Dad another day!” My mother already had a weak heart, and it had only gotten worse since Dad’s passing. She couldn’t stand against my desperate pleas. I dragged her to the hospital for a full check-up. I called my best friend, Mark, who worked at the hospital, and had him prescribe the best heart medication available, no matter the cost. Mark cleared his schedule and stayed with us for the entire day of tests. “Aunt Helen’s blood pressure is high, and her heart rate is irregular,” he said gravely. “She needs to stick to a very light diet for a while.” He looked directly at her. “And absolutely no organ meats. The cholesterol is dangerously high for her condition.” My mom always listened to doctors. I could see the fear in her eyes as his words sank in, and for the first time, a sliver of relief pierced my anxiety. Once we were safely home, I made her promise not to leave the house. I would get her anything she needed. I didn’t know what caused the tragedy in my past life, but this time, I was going to do everything in my power to keep my family from that path. The hour of her death from my previous life came and went. She was sleeping soundly in her room. The immense weight on my chest finally lifted. The moment the tension broke, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion washed over me. I collapsed onto the sofa and fell into a deep sleep. I was jolted awake the next morning by a call from the emergency services. “Are you the next of kin for Ms. Helen Graham? She suffered a sudden cardiac arrest. We were unable to revive her.” Impossible. She hadn’t eaten the pig's heart. She hadn’t even gone to the cemetery. I raced to the hospital, but all I found was a body under a white sheet. I talked to the neighbor who went grocery shopping with my mom every day. She told me what happened. The butcher at the market, a notoriously stingy old woman, had been unusually generous that day, pushing everyone to try a sample of her special, farm-raised pork. “Just one bite! What harm can it do? If you like it, you buy!” she’d urged. My mom had protested, saying her blood pressure was high and she needed to avoid meat. But the butcher was insistent, and my mom, not wanting to be rude, finally relented and swallowed a small piece. Minutes later, she collapsed in the middle of the market. It turned out the sample was pork diaphragm—a cut of meat taken from right next to the heart. Tears streamed down my face. Why? Why couldn’t I save her? I stormed over to the butcher’s stall, demanding answers, but her family chased me away with meat cleavers. “We were running a promotion! What’s it to you? It was her time to go, that’s all!” the old woman shrieked after me. “I heard you let your own father starve to death! Don’t you dare come here pretending to be a dutiful son!” I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably, until my wife, Kate, found me and led me home. She bustled around, making funeral arrangements, her presence a small comfort in the storm. But then the memory of my last life hit me like a physical blow. I grabbed her arm, my grip desperate, my voice a ragged whisper. “Promise me. No matter what you dream my dad says… promise me you won’t do it.” Kate just thought I was in shock, overwrought with grief. She nodded quickly, patting my hand. “Of course, honey. Don’t worry. I never dream anyway.” She comforted me for what felt like hours, and slowly, the frantic pounding in my chest began to subside. Back home, I fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. I woke the next morning to the sound of Kate humming in the kitchen. She poked her head out, her expression full of concern. “Are you hungry? Breakfast is almost ready.” I nodded, shuffling toward the dining table on numb legs. When my eyes focused on the platter she was setting down, my blood ran cold. It was a plate of braised liver. “What are you doing?!” I roared, lunging forward and sweeping the entire plate into the trash can. My eyes were bloodshot, wild with terror. “Did you dream about him?” I demanded, my voice raw. “Didn't I tell you not to listen to him?” Kate stared at me, her face pale with shock. Then, her expression crumpled in panic. “Leo, calm down! It’s okay! I didn’t dream anything, I just… I had a sudden craving for it.” “What is wrong with liver?” she cried. “Why are you acting like this?” The dam of grief and terror I’d been holding back for days finally burst. I broke down, sobbing like a child. I ended up telling her everything—about my dad’s dream, my mom, the pig's heart. Kate held me, stroking my hair and murmuring comforting words. “You’re just under so much stress. It’s almost the New Year. Why don’t we take a trip, get away from all this?” she suggested softly. “It was just a nightmare, Leo. If we forget about it, it’ll be okay.” “I promise,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “I won’t touch liver or whiskey. And if I dream about your dad, you’ll be the first to know.” Three days passed in an uneasy calm. I asked her again and again, and each time Kate insisted that nothing was wrong, that she hadn't had any dreams. She even gently suggested I see a therapist, an offer I refused. Just as I was starting to breathe again, it happened. Kate didn’t come home from work. Her phone went straight to voicemail. That familiar, ice-cold dread crept back into my heart. I drove like a madman to the cemetery. From a distance, I saw her. She was sitting in front of my father’s grave. She was shoveling pieces of liver into her mouth. Beside her, a half-empty glass of whiskey was raised, as if toasting the cold stone.
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