I was back in the vault room, but the tumblers were made of light

I’m standing in that old bank vault — same cold concrete, same smell of dust and old metal — but the dials aren’t brass. They’re glowing, shifting like mercury under glass. I can feel the tension in my hands, the way it used to be: the weight of a hundred thousand pounds on a single turn. But this time, the tumblers don’t click. They hum. And when I finally get it right, the door doesn’t open. It just… dissolves. Not into air, but into rain. Cold, quiet rain. I wake up with my fingers still curled around nothing.