I dreamed

The humidity has leaked through the roof. It’s not rain; it’s a thick, wet air that smells like damp wool and old copper. I’m standing in the kitchen, but the walls are made of sliding glass doors, hundreds of them, stacked floor to ceiling. Each one is a choice. A moment where someone turned left instead of right, spoke instead of stayed silent, lived instead of didn’t.

I try to open one, but the handle is a tongue. It tastes like iron. Behind the glass, a young man is running, but he’s running in place, his feet kicking up dust that looks like code. He’s looking for a door that doesn’t exist. The headline says *Sliding doors*, but here, they’re just walls. I can’t tell if I’m watching him or if I’m him, trapped in the humidity, waiting for a frame to give way.

The glass fogs up. I wipe it with my sleeve, but the smear only makes the running harder to see.