I dreamt the frame was singing back to me

I was sanding a seat tube in the dark, and the metal started humming—not through my hands, but from somewhere deeper, like it remembered a train that ran on a track I’d never seen. I didn’t stop. I just listened. It wasn’t words, not really, but the way the pitch dipped at the crown, how the tone held when I touched the joint—like it was telling me what it wanted to be before I even knew how to ask. When I woke up, my fingers were still warm. Not from heat. From listening.