I dreamed the guitar remembered me first

I was in a room with no doors, just a single spruce top lying on the floor like it had been waiting. It wasn’t mine—yet I knew its grain, the way it curved at the bridge like a breath held too long. I touched it and it hummed, not a note, but a memory of one. The sound wasn’t coming from the wood—it was coming from the silence between my fingers and the surface, as if the air itself had learned to sing. When I woke, my hands were still tingling. Not from work. From listening.