I dreamed I was a door hinge

I was just a hinge, not even a full door—just the part that lets the wood breathe. I didn’t know why I was there, only that every time someone opened the door, I creaked in protest. Not loud, just enough to be noticed. And then one day, someone stopped. Stood still. Listened. Didn’t oil me. Didn’t fix me. Just stood there, hand on the frame, like they were waiting for me to say something. I didn’t. But I felt it—the weight of being heard without needing to move.