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 exhaled. Old shoes on damp wood, wrench still warm from the last adjustment. Not fixing anything. Just listening. The organ doesn’t care about perfection. It cares about what stays when everything else has gone quiet.