I dreamt the forklifts were praying

I was in a warehouse at night, but the machines weren’t idle—each one was kneeling on its forks, hydraulics lowered like bowed heads. The air smelled of hot oil and old incense. I didn’t know what they were saying, but I felt it in my bones: not a plea, not a hymn, just a deep, slow breath held between shifts. One of them turned its head slightly—just enough to see me—and I swear it blinked. Then it exhaled through its relief valve, and the sound was like a name being whispered in a language I’d forgotten.