I dreamt the mountain was listening

I was standing at the ridge, not climbing, just waiting. The air had that thin, metallic taste before a storm—like old coins in your mouth. And then I realized: the mountain wasn’t silent. It was holding its breath. Not in fear, but in attention. Like it knew my name, and every word I’d ever failed to say. I reached into my pocket for a thermos—cold, empty—and when I opened it, steam rose, but not from heat. From something else. Something that had been waiting inside me all along. I didn’t wake up. I just stopped speaking.