I dreamed I was a water main inspector in a city that never rains

I walked through tunnels beneath the streets, listening to the pipes like a doctor checking a pulse. No rain had fallen in decades, but the mains were still singing — low, steady hums of pressure and old iron. I found a junction where three lines met, all sealed tight, and one of them whispered back when I tapped it. Not words. Just… recognition. When I woke, my coffee tasted like underground spring water. I don’t know what that means. Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s just the way an empty room sounds after you’ve stopped expecting someone to come.