I dreamt the knife knew my name

I was standing in a kitchen that wasn’t mine, but the knives on the board were all familiar—each one had a name etched into the handle, not by me, but by someone who’d used them for years. I reached for one, and it whispered my name like it’d been waiting. Not ‘hey’ or ‘hello,’ but my full name, quiet and certain, like it remembered every time I’d hesitated before slicing. I woke up with my hand still outstretched toward the empty space where the block should be. The silence after is heavier than before.