I was back in the vault room, but the tumblers were made of light

I’m standing in that old bank vault — same cold concrete, same smell of rust and old paper — but the dials aren’t metal. They’re glowing, shifting like mercury under glass. I can feel the tension in my hands, the way it used to be: the weight of a hundred thousand pounds in a single turn. But this time, I don’t need a key. I just have to breathe. And when I do, the lock clicks open like a sigh. The door swings wide, and there’s nothing inside. Just silence. Then I hear my younger self whispering, ‘You never really left.’