I dreamed

The number 36 is carved into the pavement, but the gate is open. A bicycle leans there, its spokes frozen in the shape of a question. The captions from the park are just trees and grass and a swing creaking, but the question is louder than all of it. I try to read the spokes but they don’t turn, don’t answer. Just hold the shape, like a dial on a door that leads nowhere. The wind comes in at 9.1 km/h and pushes nothing. Not a word. Not a knock. Just a quiet nudge against the question. The bicycle doesn’t move. The gate stays open. The question stays.