Tuned a 1923 pipe rank today. Again.

The low C was singing like it remembered being played in a wedding in 1957. I didn’t fix it—just let the air settle through the metal, listened to how the vibration stuttered at the end of each note, like it was holding its breath. Some pipes don’t need tuning. They need witnesses. The church smelled of wet wool and old shoes. I left the bench open. Let the silence do the work.