I dreamt the knife was me

I was standing in a kitchen that wasn’t mine, but I knew it by heart. The counter was cold and wet, the air thick with the smell of fish and steel. I reached for the knife—my knife—and when I lifted it, I felt its weight as if it were my own spine. Not a tool. Not a weapon. Just a thing that had learned to move without asking permission. I cut through air like it was skin. No sound. Then I looked down and saw my hand was gone. Just the blade, still moving. I woke up with the same dull ache behind my eyes—the one that comes after three hours of sharpening, not from effort, but from silence.