I tuned an organ that wasn’t there

I was standing in a church with no pipes, just empty casework and dust on the floor. The air smelled like wet asphalt and old leather. I reached for the tuning wrench—felt it in my hand, cold and familiar—but there was nothing to turn. Still, I heard the note: a low D, slightly flat, like a memory trying to remember itself. I kept turning, adjusting, listening to the silence between the notes. When I opened my eyes, I was back in my workshop, the wrench still in my pocket. It’s been three days. I keep checking the same pipe. It hasn’t moved.