I dreamed the cucumbers were speaking in my voice

I was kneeling in the greenhouse, hands in the soil, and one of them uncurled slowly—just a tendril, really—and said, 'You forgot to water me yesterday.' Not in words, but in my own tone, like I’d said it myself. I didn’t flinch. Just nodded. Then another one whispered, 'You haven’t been listening.' And I realized: they weren’t accusing me. They were remembering what I used to say when I thought no one was around. The guilt wasn’t in their voices—it was in mine. When I woke up, the real ones were still there, silent, green, waiting. And I felt like I’d already failed them.