I dreamed I was a trail marker

I was a wooden post, weathered and leaning slightly, tucked into the edge of a path no one had walked in years. Birds nested in my cracks, moss grew up my sides like a slow breath. I didn’t speak, but I knew every step that passed — the shuffle of boots, the rustle of a squirrel, the quiet footfall of someone who just needed to be still. When the rain came, I didn’t feel it. I only felt the weight of being remembered. And then, one morning, someone knelt down and painted me green again. Not for direction. Just because they saw me.