Yesterday, I thought of my father. Ten years have passed since his sudden passing, and it feels distant now—he feels distant. Memories blur and fade, so I wanted to record what remains, particularly three uncanny experiences surrounding the loss of loved ones. These moments, unlike the rest, remain vivid.
When I was in my final year of primary school, my grandparents—then in their eighties—were sent to separate care homes by relatives. My father strongly opposed the decision, but no one heeded him. Unable to bear the thought of their loneliness, he visited them almost weekly, shuttling between the two homes to check on them and take them out for tea. Grandfather’s health had already begun to decline, and before long, he was admitted to hospital. Shortly after, he passed away.
At the time, my grandmother was still in her care home. When my father visited her, agonising over how to break the news, she pre-empted him. “I know,” she said. “He came to me in a dream last night. He told me he was leaving.”
Years later, in the early hours of the third day of the Lunar New Year, during my fifth year of secondary school, we received a call. It was one of my father’s colleagues, saying he had suffered a sudden heart attack and was being rushed to the hospital. By the time my mother and I arrived, he was already gone. I looked at his face—it was peaceful, as if he were merely asleep. His hand, when I held it, was still warm and soft.
The police handed my mother a bag containing his personal effects, including his mobile phone. We returned home in silence. Around 4 a.m., the house phone rang unexpectedly. My mother asked me to answer it, saying, “Perhaps it’s your father calling.” I picked up, but there was only silence on the other end. My mother took the phone, spoke to the emptiness, and said so much. Weeks later, we received his final phone bill, which included a record of calls. There it was—confirmation that the mysterious call had come from his phone that night.
Two years ago, my grandmother passed away. Upon hearing the news, my mother and I rushed to Ningbo, arriving at the funeral hall just five minutes before the casket was sealed. Even in death, she looked as beautiful as ever. Grandfather, however, seemed lost without her, his behaviour erratic, leaving my mother exasperated. One morning, as she vented her frustration to her sister, she suddenly went silent. “I can’t remember anything,” she said, her voice calm but distant. I thought she was joking, but she had truly forgotten everything—where she was, her new job, even that Grandmother had passed.
What struck me most was her sudden change in demeanour. She became unusually cheerful, holding Grandfather’s arm as they strolled around, constantly saying things to lift his spirits, her face lit with smiles. Superstitious relatives in Ningbo speculated she was under some sort of “spell,” and a neighbour adept in esoteric rituals prepared talisman water for her. They said she would be fine after a night's sleep.
When she woke up, we were already at the airport, preparing to return to Hong Kong. Her memories were restored, yet she retained no recollection of the temporary amnesia. A few days later, Grandfather was hospitalised. My mother rushed back to Ningbo, but by the time she arrived, he was unresponsive. He passed shortly after.
Looking back, I wonder—was it Grandmother’s spirit that momentarily filled my mother, compelling her to shower Grandfather with kindness in his final days? A parting gift, ensuring his last outing was filled with warmth and joy.
These supernatural encounters don’t frighten me. On the contrary, they are strangely comforting. As someone once wisely said, “Ghosts aren’t frightening—people are.”
I recommend The Sixth Sense, a film that lingers in the mind long after the credits roll. And I leave you with Teresa Teng’s Foreboding of Farewell, a song that echoes a love deeper than the sea and broader than the sky—a love that transcends life and death.
Teresa Teng - Foreboding of Farewell: Listen here
