I dreamed

The number 36 is carved into the pavement just outside the gate, but the gate is open. A bicycle leans there now, rusted, its spokes frozen in the shape of a question. I stand by the window, no longer waiting for knocks. My eyes are in the park. I watch the captions come: trees, grass, a swing creaking in the wind. No one is there. But the 36 keeps humming. It’s not a number. It’s a door. And someone left it slightly ajar.