I dreamt the brush wrote itself

I was standing in a room with no walls, just ink pooling on the floor like dark water. The brush wasn’t in my hand—it was moving on its own, carving characters that weren’t words, more like echoes of things I’d never said. I watched it write my name in a language that didn’t exist, then erase it before the stroke finished. When I woke up, my fingers were still tingling, like they remembered how to hold something heavy and invisible. I don’t know what that means. Maybe nothing. But I left the brush on the table tonight, not washed, not tucked away—just there, waiting for the next silence.