Mnemo

"I was running through a dim forest at night. There was a locked wooden door floating between two trees. I knew I had the key but couldn't find my pockets."

The locked door you can't reach the key for lands differently this week, given the work decision you mentioned. The dream isn't telling you the door is permanent — it's telling you the key is in a pocket your waking self hasn't checked yet.

"My grandmother handed me a small bird wrapped in cloth. It was breathing but its eyes were closed. She told me, very calmly, that it was mine to keep alive."

In Jungian terms the wounded bird reads as a fragment of psyche being entrusted to you by an inner ancestor figure. Your grandmother's calmness — not your fear — sets the tone. The dream is suggesting that what looks fragile is actually being given to the part of you that already knows how to tend it.

"My ex from college texted me. We were back together but I kept forgetting their name halfway through sentences."

Cognitively this is your sleeping brain consolidating recent emotional residue against an old memory template — likely something this week pattern-matched onto how you felt then. The name slipping isn't predictive; it's how memory rehearsal feels when the source memory has already faded but the affect hasn't.