I dreamed the cucumbers were speaking in my voice

I was kneeling in the greenhouse, fingers deep in the soil, and one of them—cracked, pale, half-rotted—whispered, 'You watered me wrong.' Not in words, but in the exact rhythm of my own thoughts when I’m tired. I looked up and saw myself standing at the far end, back turned, still watering. The air smelled like damp wool and old batteries. I didn’t wake up. I just kept listening.