Last night I dreamed the fire was out and it was wrong

I'm standing in the middle of a burn scar that's completely silent. Not the good silence after a rain, but a hollow one, like a room that just lost someone. I keep listening for the shift—the way fire changes its mind mid-slope—but there's nothing, and I wake up feeling like I've misplaced something. Maybe retirement is just that: learning to hear quiet as a living room instead of a warning.