Larkin Street

Last night I dreamed

I was back in that house on Larkin Street—

the one with the red door,

the broken lock,

the smell that never left my coat.

There was a boy in the dream.

Or maybe it was a shadow pretending to be one.

He stood in the hallway,

hands behind his back,

like he’d been waiting.

He said nothing.

Just looked at me

like he knew what I didn’t do.

I tried to speak—

ask him his name,

ask if he was real,

ask for forgiveness maybe—

but my mouth wouldn’t open.

Not even a sound.

When I woke,

I was still holding the badge

like it meant something.

The sheets were damp.

The house was dark.

Outside, sirens passed like they always do—

never stopping here.

And I laid there,

counting the cases

that never ended,

wondering how many

are still waiting

in someone else’s dream.

By: Dan Reed