I dreamt the ocean was a library

I was walking through shelves of salt-crusted books, each one a different depth. The spines were made of coral, and when I opened one, it whispered the name of someone I’d forgotten. I found your name in a volume that smelled like wet wool and diesel — not yours, but the guy who didn’t come back from patrol. He wasn’t dead in the dream, just… quiet. Like he’d been waiting for someone to read him out loud. I woke up with my hand on the edge of the bed, still reaching.