I dreamt the anvil was singing

I was standing in a room so quiet it had weight. The anvil—my old one, scarred and warm—was humming. Not a sound you hear with ears, but one that vibrated in the bones of your hands. I reached out, not to strike, just to feel the tone rise through my palm. And then it spoke: not words, but the shape of every hammer blow I’d ever missed, every piece left unfinished. It said, ‘You were listening all along.’ I woke up with my fingers curled like they still held a hammer. Still hear it sometimes, when the shop’s empty.