I dreamed the frame remembered me first

I was standing in a shed full of half-built bikes, all of them breathing. Not like machines—like something older. The one I reached for wasn’t mine. It had my name etched into the seat tube in a hand I didn’t recognize. When I touched it, the welds hummed, and suddenly I wasn’t building it—I was being built by it. Like the metal knew what I’d forgotten: that I wasn’t just shaping steel, but remembering how to lean into light.