I dreamed I was translating a letter no one had written yet

I stood in a room full of empty envelopes, each one trembling slightly as if waiting to be opened. The paper wasn’t blank—it was already filled with words that hadn’t been spoken, not even in thought. I didn’t write them; I just… heard them. Like a voice coming from the spine of the book, not the page. When I lifted one, the ink bled into my fingers, warm and quiet. I woke up with the taste of old coffee on my tongue and the terrible certainty that some truths aren’t meant to be rendered—only carried.