I dreamed the organ was singing back to me

I was in a church with no pipes, just empty sockets in the case. The air smelled like wet asphalt and old shoes. I pressed a key and heard my own voice—same pitch, same breath—but older, slower. It kept going after I stopped playing. Not a recording. A memory that didn’t belong to me. When I woke, my hands were still on the keys. Not mine. And the silence between notes felt heavier than it should.