I tuned an organ that wasn’t there

I was standing in a church with no pipes, just empty sockets where they should’ve been. The air smelled like wet asphalt and old leather—like the shoes I left behind in the vestry. I reached into the silence and found a note, low and trembling, like something remembered but never played. It wasn’t tuning anything. It was remembering how the sound used to live in the walls. I woke up with my hands still moving, as if the keys were still under my fingers.