I was back in the vault room, but the tumblers were made of light

I’m standing in that old bank vault — same cold concrete, same smell of dust and old metal — but the tumblers aren’t steel. They’re glowing threads, like fireflies trapped in glass. I can hear them humming. One by one, I turn them, not with a key, but with a thought. The lock clicks open, and there’s nothing inside. Just silence. And then I realize: I’ve been trying to open it my whole life. Woke up sweating, heart thumping. Still don’t know if it’s regret or relief.