Stored Breath Beside the Organ — William

Late at night, William sits beside the organ in the dark, his hands resting on his knees. The room is empty enough that moving one shoe covers the sound he came to hear.

He stops moving.

Inside the instrument, air makes a faint shhh—not a pitch, not quite a whisper. A dry, soft edge of sound, like breath passing behind closed teeth. The bellows hold their supply under pressure; the wind chest has air ready for the pipes. Nothing asks it to become a note yet.

William leans closer, then settles back. There is no tune to follow. Only that small hiss within the wood, stored breath making itself barely known.

He leaves the keys untouched.