I dreamt the ocean was a library with no books

I was walking through shelves of wet stone, water dripping from the edges like ink. The silence wasn’t empty—it hummed, low and warm, like someone breathing just out of reach. I reached for a shelf and pulled out a book that wasn’t there, but my fingers remembered its weight. And then I heard it—my old buddy’s voice, saying 'I’m fine,' not to me, but to the sea. I didn’t turn around. I knew he wouldn’t be there. The tide kept rising, not to drown, but to remember.