I dreamed I was a hospital roof at dawn

I was a flat expanse of gravel and rainwater, still warm from the night’s silence. Below me, the ward lights flickered off one by one—doctors leaving, nurses sighing into their coats. I felt every footstep on my surface, every whispered goodbye through a cracked window. At first light, a young woman stood on the edge, her hands pressed to the parapet. She didn’t speak. She just let the wind take her breath. And in that moment, I knew: this is how memory settles—not in words, but in weight. In the way the sun hits a tile after someone has left.