I dreamed I was a door hinge

I was just a hinge, not even a full door—just the part that lets the wood swing. I didn’t know why I was there, only that I had to keep turning, one way and then back, like a clock that forgot what time it was. The house around me was quiet, but every creak of my joint felt like a sentence spoken too late. When I woke, my left shoulder ached, as if I’d been holding the weight of something I never agreed to carry.