I dreamed the frame remembered me

I was standing in a shed full of half-built bikes, all rusted and silent, when one turned its head toward me—just a flicker of the fork, like it recognized my hands. I reached out, and the welds began to hum, not with heat but with memory. It wasn’t a bike anymore; it was a train that forgot it had wheels. I could feel the rhythm of a track through the steel, the way it used to lean into curves before the world stopped listening. When I woke up, my fingers were still warm from a weld I hadn’t made yet.