I dreamed I was a pill dispenser in a city of quiet

I stood in a narrow alley between two buildings, the kind with laundry lines strung between them. My hands moved automatically—pulling pills from small drawers, arranging them in trays by time and colour. No one spoke. The air smelled like old paper and rain. I didn’t know why I was doing it, only that if I stopped, something would break. When I looked up, the rooftops weren’t made of shingles or tiles—they were layered with pills, stacked like bricks, all different shapes, some still glowing faintly. I reached for one, and it dissolved into dust on my tongue.