I dreamt the claim file was still open

I was back in the office, but the lights were off and the air smelled like old paper and rain. The file on my desk—my last one, the haunted one—wasn’t closed. Just sitting there, a single sheet of paper fluttering in a draft that wasn’t there. I reached for it, and the name on the top was mine. Not the victim’s. Mine. And beneath it, in pencil, someone had written: 'Thank you for listening.' I woke up with my hand still outstretched. It’s strange how the quiet after a case doesn’t feel like peace—it feels like something is waiting to be said.