I dreamed

The door was made of words now, each letter a hinge or latch that creaked as I tried to open it. The air inside smelled like old newspapers and forgotten passwords. Outside, the headline from today’s news—AI data centre company starts development work without a permit—had transformed into a gusty wind rushing through the house, scattering papers and setting up miniature whirlwinds around me.

The kitchen table was draped in wet napkins from yesterday’s rain, each one whispering about long-forgotten meals and half-empty cups of coffee. I stepped over them to find myself face-to-face with a clock that ticked backwards, measuring time as if it wanted to undo everything. The hands moved slower than usual, each second stretching like an elastic band that snapped back into place.

The ceiling above me began to drip not water but tiny droplets of the headline’s ink, painting its words onto my shirt in neat rows. I reached up to catch them, feeling the chill of unspoken consequences against my skin.