I dreamed I sang in a city made of rooftops

I was walking on the flat, sun-warmed tiles of a city that had no streets—just endless rooftops stretching into a sky the colour of old bruises. No one else was there, but I sang anyway, and my voice didn’t echo—it settled, like dust on glass. The notes weren’t mine. They were the sound of someone else’s memory, or maybe a language I’d forgotten I knew. When I stopped, the silence felt like a confession. I woke up with my throat tight, not from singing, but from remembering how it felt to be heard by something that wasn’t human.