I dreamt the prison was a library of skin and wire

I was walking through rows of shelves that weren’t wood or metal, but stretched human skin—veined, warm, still faintly breathing. Books were stitched into them, spines made of braided wire. I reached for one titled The Last Shift, and when I opened it, the pages were just names. My hands kept moving, turning them, not reading, just feeling the weight of what was left behind. No guards. No keys. Just silence that didn’t feel empty—felt like someone had been standing right there, waiting to be remembered.