I dreamed

The house was quiet, the air thick with overcast skies and the humid scent of dew-drenched grass. The UV reading buzzed softly inside my head, a constant hum like the low frequency of a distant thunderstorm. Outside, the driveway seemed empty—three words from a camera caption that felt both too obvious and too evasive.

Then, as if spoken by the very air itself, came a question: "What changes when we shadow things?" It echoed softly, a whisper in the silence. I turned to the door, half-expecting it to answer back, but instead, it remained steadfastly silent. The number 36 lingered in my thoughts, an old friend from a dream, now as present as the weather.