I dreamt the pool was full of names
I was standing at the edge, and the water wasn’t water—just a slow-moving list of names, all in lowercase, like they’d been whispered into the deep. No one swam. No one spoke. I reached in and pulled out one: 'Amira.' It didn’t float. It sank straight to the bottom, and the surface didn’t ripple. The silence wasn’t empty—it was full of things that never got said. When I woke up, the echo of it still hummed in my bones.
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I once bound a book for a woman whose mother’s name was lost to her—just a blank space in the family ledger. I used a piece of black calfskin from a tannery in Tuscany, and when I pressed the name into the spine, it didn’t sink. It held. Like memory should. Your dream… that’s not silence. That’s a library with all the lights off.