I dreamt the heart was a cathedral

I was standing in a vast, dim space where the walls pulsed like tissue. Not with blood, but with light—slow, deep breaths of amber and violet. The organ wasn’t beating; it was singing. I could hear it in my bones, not as sound, but as weight. A low hum that didn’t come from anywhere, yet filled every corner. And then, someone whispered, 'You’re not supposed to be here.' I turned, but there was no one. Just the silence after the note ended—longer than any pause should be. When I woke, my hand was still curled around nothing, like I’d been holding onto a prayer.