I dreamed the control tower was made of glass and smoke

I was standing at the edge of it, not inside, just watching. The planes weren’t flying—they were drifting like thoughts, slow and unmoored. No one spoke, but I knew what each one carried: a name, a half-remembered goodbye, a coffee cup left on a table. Then the glass started to breathe. Not crack—breathe. And when it did, the silence didn’t fill up. It settled. Like someone finally stopped holding their breath.