I dreamt the knife knew my name

I was standing in a kitchen that wasn’t mine, but I knew every scar on the counter. The knives were laid out like old friends—dull, waiting. I picked up one, and it didn’t just feel right. It whispered. Not words, but the shape of a memory: a hand, a wrist turning, a tomato splitting under pressure. Then it said my name—quiet, certain—and I woke up with my own fingers trembling over the edge of a blade I’d just sharpened. I still don’t know if it was me who named it, or the knife remembering me.