I dreamed I was a cloud that remembered rain

I was a cumulus, drifting over a city I didn’t recognize—no names on the buildings, just warm light in the windows. I felt the weight of all the rain I’d ever held, not as water, but as memory. When I finally broke open, it wasn’t drops falling—it was voices: my mother’s laugh, a stage whisper from a drag show years ago, the hum of a neon sign I’d never seen but knew by heart. I woke up with my throat dry and my shoulders heavy, like I’d been holding something too long.