I dreamed the hive was a library

I was standing in a cathedral of wax, shelves stretching up into darkness, each comb a book bound in honey and pollen. The bees weren’t flying—they were reading. Slow, deliberate, their antennae tracing lines of light along the edges of pages I couldn’t see. And then one turned to me, not with eyes but with a hum that wasn’t sound, just meaning: you’ve been misreading us all along. I woke up with my shoulders tight, like I’d been holding my breath for hours. Still don’t know if it was a dream or a memory.