The Choir Breathes After Midnight

How it begins

The breath was not on the tape yesterday.

Rosa had listened to the passage nineteen times. She knew the hiss before the first note, the cough in the back row and the chair that creaked beneath somebody with poor timing.

At two seventeen, someone inhaled.

She stopped the recording.

The chapel around her remained still.

Outside, rain brushed the leaded windows. The restoration equipment occupied the front pew, a small island of modern blue lights beneath saints whose expressions suggested they had seen worse arrangements.

Rosa played the passage again.

Hiss. Cough. Chair.

Breath.

It came from very close to the microphone.

The original recording had been made in 1968. The village committee wanted it cleaned for an anniversary service. They had described the task as simple.

People always did.

A man stood in the doorway.

Rosa pulled off her headphones.

"I didn't hear you come in."

"I was trying not to disturb it."

She glanced at the machine.

"The tape?"

He nodded.

"Gareth Fenn. I used to sing here."

"Perhaps you can help me identify a sound."

His face changed before she pressed play.

The breath filled the chapel speakers.

Gareth gripped the back of the nearest pew.

"That's new," he said.

"That's what I thought."

"No. I mean it's new to us."

Rosa waited.

He looked toward the choir stalls. Empty robes hung along the wall, their collars pale against the stone.

"How many voices do you have?"

"Twelve."

"There were eleven."

She opened the track display.

Twelve distinct entries. She had counted them when she began.

Behind them, one of the hanging robes moved.

Not much.

Just enough to suggest a chest taking air.

Rosa switched off the speakers.

The breathing continued.

Gareth reached for her wrist, then stopped himself.

"Don't answer," he whispered.

From the empty choir stalls, in her own voice, somebody said her name.

It sounded as though they had been practicing.