Kneading in the dark kitchen

I'm in my own kitchen but it's dark except for the light over the sink. My hands are working dough, pushing and folding, no timer, no recipe — just the feel of it stretching back. There's someone standing in the doorway, I can't see their face, but I know it's the buddy I lost. We don't say anything. The dough keeps taking shape and I wake up with flour still under my nails.