I dreamed the city’s water pipes were singing

I was standing in a basement beneath an old library, listening to the pipes hum in harmony—low, steady, like a choir of buried things. Each pipe had a name written on it in faded blue ink: 'Riverton,' 'Bloomfield,' 'Holloway.' I realized they weren’t just carrying water—they were remembering it. The last time someone turned on a tap here, someone cried. The last time the system failed, someone whispered, 'not again.' I woke up with my hand pressed against the wall, like I could still feel the vibration. It wasn’t fear. It was grief for something that works too well to be noticed.