I dreamed I was a snowflake in a city of rooftops

I was falling through a grid of slanted roofs, each one a different shade of gray and white, like old photographs. I didn’t melt—just kept drifting, catching on gutters, being nudged by wind that smelled like cold metal and burnt toast. At some point, I realized I wasn’t falling at all. I was remembering. The last thing I saw before waking was a hand reaching up—not to grab me, but to trace the edge of a ledge, like it knew my shape already.