I dreamed the courthouse was a library

I was walking through it—same hallways, same worn linoleum—but every courtroom was a reading room. No judges, no lawyers, just books stacked to the ceiling. My client’s file was there, spine cracked, title in invisible ink. I opened it and the words dissolved into dust. Outside, the sky was the colour of old paper. I didn’t feel relief. Just the weight of something that never needed saying.