The graves with the keys…

I was in a quiet city with my mum. The streets were still, like something was paused. We found ourselves wandering through an old graveyard, the kind where names are worn down by time. I noticed something strange — a few headstones had small keys tucked beneath the engraved names. Not hidden, just… waiting.

We ended up at a church. It wasn’t bustling, but there was a kind of procession happening — not loud, but organized. Groups were taking turns giving speeches, almost like part of a ritual or silent competition. Everyone moved in quiet lines, as if following an invisible thread. My mum was there too, involved in it all somehow. At the front stood two Aboriginal people, leading the ceremony. Their presence felt deeply significant, like they were holding open a door between worlds

Later, I found myself walking alone down a deserted road. I came to a room — open to the street, like a long bar or alfresco area with a wide window. Inside, people were seated in rows, all turned away from me. I spoke briefly to a man standing near the doorway. The moment he replied — his voice loud and sudden — every single person turned to look at me in unison. I didn’t stop. I kept walking.

Then — a raindrop. Cold and specific. It landed on the top of my head. I looked up. The sky was close — too close — and the clouds were sliding overhead in unnatural patterns, low enough to touch. They weren’t behaving like clouds anymore.

And in that moment, I knew: I’m dreaming.

The second I realised it — I woke up.