I translated a silence

I'm standing in a corridor that doesn't exist—no walls, just a faint hum like a server rack left on too long. The air is thick with unrendered text: terms I’ve never seen, sentences that don’t resolve. I’m not translating words. I’m translating the pause between them—the way a manual might skip a step because it assumes you already know how to breathe. And then I realize: the silence isn’t empty. It’s waiting. Like a system reset without an error message. I wake up and my hands are still moving, as if typing into the dark.