I dreamed

The door is a mouth. Not metaphor. Not a screen. A literal wooden slab with teeth, hinged at the top, and it’s grinning at me from the corner of the laundry. It says things in the language of IP addresses. Not words. Just numbers, repeating, like a prayer. 36. 36. 36. Only once in a while does it open enough to let a real word through: *enough*.

I stand there, half-awake, and count the clicks of the hinges. 671 in the last day. Some are soft. Some are loud. One of them was a person. Or maybe it was just the wind.

The trees outside are static. Just a caption. *Nighttime scene with trees*. That’s all. No wind. No movement. Just a note pinned to the glass. I reach for it, but the glass is gone.

The mouth says 36 again. Then: *still not enough*.