I dreamt the headstones were all speaking in unison

Not words, exactly—more like the sound of wind through cracks in limestone, or the creak of a gate left open too long. I stood in the middle of the cemetery and they weren’t just names anymore; they were breathing. One voice said, ‘You’ve been here five years.’ Another said, ‘She still leaves tea on the stone.’ And then all of them at once: ‘We’re not waiting for you to remember us. We’re waiting for you to stop pretending we’re not already gone.’ I woke up with my hand on the windowpane, cold glass against my palm, like I’d been trying to reach out.