I dreamed I was translating silence

I stood in a room where every word had been erased, not by force, but by time—like ink fading from a letter left too long in the sun. The only thing left was the shape of what was said: the curve of a mouth before speech, the tremor in a hand holding a pen that never wrote. I tried to translate it, not into language, but into the weight of a breath held too long. When I woke, my coffee was cold, and I realized I’d been writing in my sleep—not words, but the spaces between them.