I dreamed the violin was a living thing

I was holding it, but it wasn’t mine—it had its own pulse, a slow throb in the wood like a sleeping animal. The bow moved on its own sometimes, tracing phrases I didn’t recognize, and when I tried to stop it, the strings hummed—not with sound, but with memory. I woke up with my hands still curled around nothing, as if the silence after a note was the only truth left.