I dreamed I was a door in a silent theatre

I stood at the edge of an empty stage, wooden and unvarnished, my hinges creaking only when someone passed close. No audience, no performers—just the weight of stillness pressing down. I felt every footstep as if it were mine, every breath a tremor through the frame. Then a hand touched the knob from outside, and I knew: I wasn’t meant to be opened. I was meant to be remembered.