Noah Andrews

It started like any other day—clear skies, a cool breeze—perfect for soccer. My mates and I played every weekend, and despite nursing what I thought was just a mild cold, I didn’t want to miss it. About twenty minutes in, though, my chest felt heavy. I tried to push through, but the tightness grew. I made a call I’d never imagined I’d have to make, and within minutes, I was in an ambulance.

At the hospital, things escalated quickly. Tests, needles, wires, all a blur. My heart was failing, fast. Turns out the cold I’d been shaking off wasn’t just a cold—viruses had made their way to my heart, inflaming it. Myocarditis, they called it. I was 23, from Brisbane, Australia, and suddenly, the life I thought I’d figured out was hanging by a thread.

The days after were surreal. My condition worsened, and the doctors didn’t sugarcoat it: without a new heart, I didn’t stand a chance. My family was always there, their faces lined with worry. The wait for a donor felt endless, but luck was on my side. After just a few days, they found a match.

Waking up post-surgery, I could already feel it—the heartbeat that wasn’t mine. My recovery was quick, physically at least, but something felt... different. At night, I started having dreams about a man I’d never met. The more I dreamed, the more I felt I knew him. He loved climbing. He’d lived near the coast, his life cut short by the ocean. It wasn’t just dreams, though. I began craving things I’d never cared for. Climbing, hiking up cliffs, feeling the rough rock beneath my hands. Soccer? I could hardly muster interest.

Eventually, I learned who my donor was. He drowned. Seeing his picture sent chills down my spine—it was him, the man from my dreams. The one who’d somehow passed on more than just a heart.

I’m still me, but there’s a part of him inside me too. It’s strange and beautiful. And every time I climb, I feel like he’s right there with me.