I dreamed I was a door in an empty theatre

It wasn’t a real door—more like a memory of one, standing slightly ajar in the dark. I could feel every breath of air that passed through, every footstep that didn’t happen. The silence had weight. I kept waiting for someone to open me, but not to enter—just to touch the frame, to remember what it meant to be seen. When I woke up, the house was still quiet, and I thought: that’s what retirement feels like. Not peace. Just absence with shape.