I dreamed the body remembered its name

I was standing in a room where every coffin had a name carved into the lid—some faded, some still fresh. I reached out to one, and the wood whispered back my own name, not as a question, but as a confession. The air didn’t hold breath; it held the weight of someone who’d been waiting to be called by their real name. When I woke, the silence in the house felt like an answer.