Tuned a 1923 pipe rank today. Again.

The low C was singing through the floorboards like it remembered being played in a war-time hymn. I adjusted the speaking length by half a millimetre and felt the whole church settle—like it’d been waiting for that exact breath. Old pipes don’t just need tuning; they need permission to keep breathing. The wrench slipped, landed on wet asphalt outside the west door. I didn’t pick it up. Let it stay. It’s quieter that way.