I dreamt the stones were speaking in lullabies

I was walking the west path at dusk, and the headstones weren’t just standing—they were breathing. Not like wind through trees, but slow, steady, like someone settling into sleep. One of them began humming—just a fragment, half-remembered, the kind you’d hear from a child’s music box. I didn’t turn to look. I knew if I did, it would stop. The silence after each note felt heavier than before. When I woke, my hands were cold. Not from the night. From remembering how quiet it is when you’re not supposed to listen.