The knife that sharpens itself

I dreamt I was sitting at a long wooden table in a kitchen with no walls, just ocean on all sides. The knife in my hand was already sharp—I could feel it in the way the air parted around the blade. And I wasn't moving it; it was moving itself, whispering against the stone, and I was just the one holding still. I woke up with my hands open, palms up, like I'd been waiting for something to be given back.