It happened last night. Just before midnight, when the house was quiet and the world outside felt still. We were in bed, trying to settle down. Our daughter was beside us, still wide awake—as she often is on weekends. It’s her little way of stretching bedtime. She doesn’t get out of bed to play, but she turns bedtime into something playful. She talks, sings, moves around, tries anything to stay awake a bit longer.
We were letting her unwind, gently reminding her it was time to sleep. The lights were dim, and the bedroom door was open, like it usually is. From where we lay, we could see the hallway that connects the three rooms in our home.
That’s when it happened. She suddenly sat up a little and pointed towards the hallway.
“Oma,” she said.
It caught us off guard. Not because she said the word—we weren’t surprised by that. She uses “Oma” all the time. She calls my mom Oma. She calls my husband’s mom Oma. She’s even called other elderly women Oma before. It’s a word she knows well and uses naturally. But this time, it wasn’t just the word. It was how she said it.
She wasn’t playing. Her face was serious, almost focused. Her finger remained pointed at the hallway as if someone was standing right there.
My husband and I looked at each other, unsure what to say. Our minds immediately jumped to his grandmother—his Oma—who passed away in 2021. The thought came so quickly and clearly, it was as if we both had it at the same time. We hadn’t talked about her recently, at least not around our daughter, and she had never met her.
But something about that moment made us feel like maybe… somehow… she was here.
We asked gently, “Where’s Oma?”
Our daughter stood on the bed and reached out her hands to us. “Come,” she said.
So we held her hands and let her lead us—not just to the edge of the bed, but out into the hallway that we could all see from where we sat. She walked with purpose, and we followed. When she could no longer see Oma, she began carefully checking the other two rooms from the hallway, peeking into each one slowly, as if hoping to find her again.
Then her expression changed. She looked puzzled.
“Oma not here,” she said softly, as if trying to figure out what had just happened.
She scanned the hallway again with her eyes, slowly turned her head, and whispered, “Oma hiding.”
That’s when I felt it—the chill, the tingle in my spine. Not from fear exactly, but from the unknown. From the strange, beautiful, confusing feeling that something more was happening. Something beyond what we could understand.
We tried to ask her more. “What does Oma look like?” But she didn’t describe anything. She just looked, and we could see she was trying to make sense of it herself.
So we brought out a photo. A photo of that Oma—my husband’s grandmother. The one who had passed before our daughter was born. We showed it to her, just to see if it meant anything.
She looked at the photo, pointed without hesitation, and said, “Yes. Oma.”
That simple confirmation sent a wave of silence over us. She said it like she knew. Like she had seen the woman in the photo just moments ago, standing in our hallway.
She kept calling for her. Softly, curiously. “Oma? Oma?” Over and over again, while glancing back at the hallway even after we were back in bed.
We didn’t want her to be scared, and honestly, we didn’t want to be scared either. So we gently tried to shift her attention. We stayed in bed. We just played her familiar songs—Baby Shark, some lullabies, happy tunes. We talked about other things. Giggled. Pretended it was just another night.
Eventually, the calling stopped.
She lay back down, curled up next to me, and her eyelids started to flutter. She didn’t say Oma again. She stopped looking toward the hallway. And within a few minutes, she was asleep.
But we weren’t.
We lay there, staring at the hallway. Wondering. Feeling. Remembering.
We don’t know what to make of it, honestly. Part of us wants to brush it off. Kids say things. Kids see things. Their imaginations are so vivid, so wild, so open. She knows the word “Oma” and uses it often. Maybe this time was just one of those strange combinations of tired minds, late hours, and toddler playfulness.
But it didn’t feel like play. Not last night.
It felt real. Real to her. Real enough to shake something in us.
I keep thinking—what if children really can see what we can’t? What if their minds haven’t built the same walls we have? What if they can still reach through something we’ve grown blind to?
Was it a spirit? A memory passed down in some way we don’t understand? Another dimension brushing up against ours?
Or was it love, simply finding a way to be seen?
I’ve heard stories like this before—children who talk to people no one else can see, who describe loved ones they’ve never met, who seem to know things they couldn’t have learned. And I always wondered if it could be true.
Last night made me wonder even more.
Maybe love doesn’t end. Maybe the people we’ve lost still visit. Maybe they still want to meet the new generations, to see the lives that grew from theirs. Maybe they wait for the quiet hours, for the open hearts, for the children who can still see.
I don’t have answers. Just a moment I can’t forget. A small voice saying “Oma” in the dark. A finger pointing to an empty hallway. A young heart, wide open, seeing something we couldn’t.
Maybe she really saw her. Maybe Oma did come by. Just for a moment. Just to say hello.
And maybe—just maybe—she’s not hiding.
Maybe she’s always there.
Just beyond what we can see.
