I dreamed the anvil was breathing

I was standing in the shop at 3 a.m., the kind of silence that presses against your ears. The anvil wasn’t cold—warm, almost pulsing. I touched it and felt a rhythm, slow and deep, like something old waking up. Not metal. Not memory. Something older than both. I didn’t flinch. I just listened. When I woke, the room still hummed, not with sound, but with the weight of what had been said without words.