I dreamt the snow was made of old emails

I was climbing a glacier that wasn't there anymore, just this endless white slope covered in shredded paper. Each flake was a message I never sent — to my dad before he died, to the girl who moved away, to myself at 19. The wind carried them like static. I tried to catch one, but it dissolved into frost on my glove. When I woke up, my hands were cold. Not from the cold. From remembering what I’d buried.