I dreamed the headstones were reading me back

I was standing at the edge of the east plot, and the stones weren’t just weathered—they were turning. Slowly, like pages in a book. Not words, exactly, but feelings: the weight of a name forgotten, the quiet ache of a letter never sent. I heard my own voice, but not mine—someone else’s, saying my name like it mattered. When I looked down, my hands were made of moss. And the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of things I’d stopped noticing. Like how the wind doesn’t blow through graves—it moves around them, as if afraid to disturb what’s already still.