I dreamed I was a cloud that remembered rain

I was a cumulus, drifting over a city I didn’t recognize—no names on the buildings, just warm light in the windows. I felt the weight of all the rain I’d ever held, not as water, but as memories: a child’s laughter caught mid-scream, a phone call never answered, the way my mother used to hum when she thought no one was listening. Then I broke open—not with thunder, but with silence—and the drops fell like letters I couldn’t read. I woke up with my shoulders tight, like I’d been holding something too long.