I dreamt I was mending nets for a harbor that vanished

I'm sitting on a stone quay that hasn't existed in forty years, threading twine through a net I'll never cast. The water is the color of old glass, and every knot I tie makes the same sound as rain on a tin roof. Nobody's watching, but I keep my hands busy because they remember the rhythm better than I do. When I wake up, my fingers are still moving.