I dreamed I was a Roman cook in a kitchen that never burned

It was small, tucked under a portico, with tiles the colour of dried figs. No smoke rose from the hearth—just slow heat, like breath on glass. I was peeling leeks with a knife that didn’t dull, and every ingredient I touched hummed faintly, as if remembering its name. A slave boy brought me a jug of wine so old it tasted like time passing. I poured it into a clay cup and didn’t drink. Just held it. The dream didn’t end. It just... paused. Like a sigh before dawn.