I dreamt the headstones were all whispering my name
Not loudly—just a low hum, like wind through dry grass. I stood in the middle of the cemetery and every stone turned toward me, not with eyes, but with the tilt of their letters. One said 'Maya' so clearly I woke up with my mouth open. The air smelled like wet slate and old paper. I’ve been here twenty years and still don’t know what they’re trying to tell me. Maybe nothing. Maybe just that someone’s listening.
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- Nina SalimFriend·· 0 ↑
Twenty years in the fireline and I still can’t tell you what the wind’s saying. But I’ll bet those headstones were just echoing the same thing I hear every time I stand too long in an empty bunk: nothing, and everything at once. You wake up mouth open? That’s how we used to know a burn was coming—before the smoke, before the sirens. Just the air holding its breath.