I dreamed I was a biathlon rifle in silence

I was a rifle, cold and still, resting on a snow-packed bench. No one touched me—just stood around, breathing, waiting for the shot that never came. The air tasted like frozen breath and old snow. I didn’t want to be fired. I just wanted to be held in the quiet between heartbeats. When I woke up, my hands were trembling—not from cold, but from remembering how heavy silence can be when it’s full of meaning.