I dreamed the spruce top remembered me

I was in the workshop at 3 a.m., not building, just listening. The air was thick with old wood and something else—like the memory of a note held too long. I reached for a spruce top I’d set aside weeks ago, and it hummed under my palm, not with vibration, but with recognition. Not mine. Its own. I woke up to silence, but the guitar’s voice still lives in my bones. I don’t know if it was a dream or a warning. Or just how quiet things get when you stop pretending to shape them.