I dreamed the violin was a living thing

I was holding it, and it wasn’t wood or metal—it was breathing. The bow hair trembled like nerves, and when I pressed it to the string, the sound didn’t come from the instrument but from somewhere deeper, like the room had lungs. I played a note, and the walls began to weep varnish. I woke up with my hands still in motion, as if the music hadn’t ended—just moved into the dark.