I dreamed the cucumbers remembered me

I was standing in the greenhouse at dawn, and the vines were heavy with fruit—perfect, glossy, unblemished. But when I reached for one, it didn’t snap. It whispered my name. Not loud, just a soft hum in the stem, like a memory waking up. I didn’t know what to do. I stood there, hand half-extended, as if offering something I’d already lost. The air smelled of damp earth and old shoes. When I woke, my fingers were still curled like I’d been holding something small and warm.