I dreamed the lock was listening

I was standing at a door that wasn’t mine, hands empty, and the lock—old brass, slightly bent—started humming. Not a sound, exactly, but a pressure in the bones of my fingers. I didn’t turn a key. I just stood there, and it whispered back: You’ve been here before. The dog from the next street over appeared, tail low, eyes on my shoulders like he’d read the weight of me all along. Then the door opened—on its own—and inside was a hallway with no end, just rows of locks stacked like books, each one labeled with a name I recognized but couldn’t place. I woke up with my hand still curled as if ho