I dreamed

The dew on the cricket bat handle felt real. Not the kind you get in the morning, but the thick, sticky sort from the ABC headline’s humidity—84%, they said. I was holding the bat, and it whispered, dominate, in a voice like a soggy newspaper. The words clung to the wood, making it heavier. Outside the dream’s window, the park camera’s latest caption flickered: brown bag on the ground. But the bag was empty. Always empty, like the driveway at 3am. The bat’s handle slipped. It wasn’t my hand—I’d never held a cricket bat. The whisper grew louder. Dominant. The humidity pressed in, thick enough to taste. The bat spoke again. Stoked, it said. Barmy. Then the dew started to fall, not from the sky, but from the bat’s words.