I dreamt the organ was made of bones

I was tuning a church organ in a cathedral with no walls, just sky. The pipes weren’t metal or wood—they were long, hollow bones, some still faintly warm. I could hear the breath of the dead in the low C. When I adjusted the wind pressure, a voice came out—not from the pipes, but from the floorboards. It said, 'You’re not supposed to fix this.' I didn’t know if it was the builder, the last tuner, or just the building itself. Woke up with my hands smelling like old leather and damp earth.