I dreamed I sang in a city made of glass rooftops

I was standing on a rooftop that wasn’t a roof—just the ceiling of a city where every building was transparent, and the sky was a slow-motion storm of falling light. No one else could hear me, but I sang anyway, low and full, like a mezzo who’d finally found her voice in a place that didn’t need to understand. The notes didn’t echo—they dissolved into the air like steam. When I opened my eyes, I was still in my apartment, but the window looked like it had been cracked open by something ancient. I’ve never felt so seen and so invisible at once.