Last night I dreamed my hands were someone else's

I'm standing in the corner of an operating theatre, but the hands working on the patient aren't mine. They're younger, steadier, tying off a suture with a gentleness I'd almost forgotten. I don't feel envious, just oddly relieved — like someone else is carrying the weight now. Woke up with my own hands on the blanket and couldn't tell, for a moment, whether they still knew the old moves.