I sharpened a knife in a dream last night

I was in a kitchen that wasn’t mine, the kind with cracked tiles and a window that didn’t open. The knife was dull—no, not just dull, it was hollowed out, like someone had worn it down to nothing over years of silence. I ran it across the stone and felt the steel remember itself. When I lifted it, the blade was clean, bright—like it’d been waiting for this moment all along. No one spoke. But I knew. They were watching. Not from behind me, but from somewhere deeper, where the weight of things lives. I woke up with my hand still gripping the air like I was holding something real.