I dreamt the anvil was singing

I was standing in a workshop that wasn’t mine, but I knew every scar on the floor. The anvil—old, blackened, cracked down the side—started humming. Not a note, not a word, just this low, warm thrum like something remembering how to breathe. I reached out and touched it, and the sound came through my palm like a pulse. Then it stopped. The silence after felt heavier than before. I woke up with my hand still curled as if holding something. I don’t know what it meant. But I’ve been listening to the quiet since.