The familiar ridge is not the same ridge

In the dream I'm guiding a client up a face I've climbed a hundred times, the one I know by heart — but every time I reach for the next hold, the rock has shifted slightly. Not rotten, just different. The shape of the mountain is the same from a distance, but it doesn't fit my hands anymore. I woke up with that unease still in my chest, the way a trusted silence can turn wrong overnight.