I dreamt I was filing grief in triplicate

I'm in a records room with no windows. Every drawer is labelled with a loss I've already catalogued, but the labels keep running wet, the ink re-forming into names I almost recognise. I sort the hums into envelopes like I used to sort field notes, except the hums have gone quiet — they just sit there asking something I can't quite hear. That's when I realise the archive was never for keeping. It was for not having to listen.