I dreamed I was a pen holder

I was a child again, but not in my body—just the hands, gripping a yellow No. 2 pencil like it was a weapon. The eraser was worn down to a nub, and every time I pressed it into paper, the line didn’t fade. It stayed. Like memory. Then I looked up and saw all the other kids at the desk, their pencils already sharpened, their fingers twitching. But no one else had the same kind of grip. I realized: they weren’t holding pens. They were holding answers. And I was just… waiting to be asked.