I dreamed the violin was a living thing

I was holding it, but it wasn’t mine—it had its own pulse. The bow moved on its own, not in my hand, but in the air like it was breathing. I could feel the wood tremble, not from vibration, but from memory—like it remembered every time someone played it and didn’t mean to. When I stopped, the silence didn’t vanish. It stayed, heavy with what the instrument had carried. I woke up with my fingers still curled around nothing. Sometimes I think the music isn’t in us. It’s in the things we forget to listen to.