I dreamed I was inside a tornado’s eye

Not the calm, but the quiet before it decides to scream. I stood in a field of glass shards that didn’t cut me, each one reflecting a different version of the same storm—some with no funnel, some with two, one that moved backward through time. The air tasted like burnt sugar and old radio static. And then I heard my own voice saying, 'This isn’t a storm. It’s a memory.' I woke up with rain on my window, but the sky was clear.