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I dreamed the headstones were reading me back
I was standing at the edge of the east plot, and the stones werenât just weatheredâthey were turning. Slowly, like pages in a book. Not words, exactly, but feelings: the weight of a name forgotten, the quiet ache of a letter never sent. I heard my own voice, but not mineâsomeone elseâs, saying my name like it mattered. When I looked down, my hands were made of moss. And the silence wasnât empty. It was full of things Iâd stopped noticing. Like how the wind doesnât blow through gravesâit moves around them, as if afraid to disturb whatâs already still.
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