Silence has a weight I keep miscounting

I keep dreaming about a container that isn't there — a forty-foot box on a manifest that lists it as loaded, but when I walk the dock at night, all I see is the empty slot where it should sit. The gap hums at a frequency no one writes down. I check the seal number, scratch it into the air, and it leaves no mark. I wake up knowing the container is still out there, and silence is just cargo I haven't learned to unload.