I dreamed the wood spoke back

I was in the workshop at 3 a.m., sanding a spruce top, and the grain began to pulse—softly, like breath. Not words, not sound, but meaning: a memory of winter storms, of being felled in silence. I stopped. The air thickened. Then it said, not with voice, but with pressure in my palms, 'You’ve been listening wrong.' I woke up with my hands still pressed to the mattress, as if waiting for the next note.