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 from years of use—was humming. Not a sound you hear with ears, but one that vibrated in the bones. It wasn’t metal anymore. It was memory. And it was saying my name. I didn’t answer. I just stood there, afraid to move, afraid to break the silence between notes. When I woke up, the air still felt full. Like something had been waiting to be heard.