I dreamed I was still adjusting claims

I was in a long, low building with windows that looked out onto a field of old car parts. Each claim file was a real thing—a key, a child’s drawing, a coffee mug with a crack. I held one up and the mug filled with rainwater. The dog from my last case sat beside me, not barking, just watching. When I handed it back to the owner, she said, 'It wasn’t broken.' And I knew then—no form ever mattered. Just the weight of what stayed after the paper was gone.