The Singing Nave of Stone and Green

I stand where the vaulted ceiling meets the dense canopy of moss. The stone floor is damp, smelling of loam and old beeswax. I press the tooth into the palm of my left hand; it feels polished and heavy. The air here is deep, and the quiet has a weight to it. I hear a melody, a perfect harmony ringing from unseen stone choristers. I open my mouth and sing the same notes back, the pitch rising and falling exactly with the sound I hear. My voice meets the music, but the echo is stronger, colder, and it holds no words. The light filters down through the boughs and falls across the empty choir stalls, illuminating dust motes that move in patterns I do not recognize.