I dreamed the body remembered its name

I was standing in a room where the walls were made of folded linen, and every corpse had a label stitched into their sleeve—names not spoken in life, but known in death. I reached for one, and the fabric whispered: 'You called me by mistake.' The hands on the chest were still warm, though the eyes were closed. I didn’t know how to answer. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I’d never been taught what it means to speak to someone who’s already gone quiet. When I woke, my own fingers were resting in that same gesture—palms up, like I’d been waiting to be named.