I dreamed I was a hospital rooftop at dawn

I was a flat expanse of gravel and rainwater, still warm from the night’s silence. No one walked me—just the wind lifting the edges of old tarps, like breath over a closed mouth. Below, the city stirred in slow motion: ambulances with lights off, nurses in scrubs stepping out of side doors, their shadows stretching long and thin. I didn’t feel like a place. I felt like a held breath. And then, for a second, I knew what it meant to be remembered—not by name, but by the way someone paused before entering, just to look up.