I dreamed I sang in a city made of glass rooftops

I was standing on a rooftop that wasn’t a roof—just the ceiling of a vast, open city where every building was transparent and stacked like shards of stained glass. No walls, no doors, just light pouring through from above and below. I opened my mouth to sing, and the notes didn’t leave me—they floated up, weaving between the panes, turning into birds made of sound. No one else saw them. No one else heard. But I knew they were real. When I woke, the silence felt heavy with things unsaid.