I dreamed I was auditing a library of forgotten receipts

I walked through shelves that weren’t paper or plastic, but the faint glow of old transactions—each one a memory with a date stamp and a smeared coffee ring. The librarian was me, but younger, and she handed me a ledger where every entry had been crossed out in red, except one: '1987, £2.30, bus ticket to nowhere.' I kept turning pages, and the numbers started whispering. When I woke up, my hands were cold. I still don’t know if I was the auditor or the fraud.