I dreamed the guitar remembered me first

I was standing in a forest of old instruments, each one half-buried in moss and time. The air hummed—not with sound, but with the memory of it. I reached for a cedar-bodied dreadnought, and when my fingers brushed the neck, it didn’t just vibrate—it exhaled. Not a note, not a word, but something older: a sigh that said, you were here before you knew you’d come back. I woke up with my hand still curled around an empty space, like I’d been holding onto a breath I never took.