The air in the village church was unusually still at 3:00 PM, a time when Milan Ševčík would usually be fussing with his sheet music or testing the pedals of the pipe organ. Today, however, the mahogany bench was empty.
The priest began the Holy Mass, his voice sounding smaller than usual without the usual chorus of responses. But when it came time for the music, a young man—Milan’s grandson—stepped up to the loft. His hands trembled as he placed them on the keys his grandfather had polished with decades of use. The air in the village church was unusually
Milan had spent fifty years as the village organist. He was the invisible pulse of every Sunday morning, the man who knew exactly which stop to pull to make the congregation’s hearts swell during a hymn. He had played for the breathless brides walking down the aisle and for the grieving families carrying their loved ones out. But when it came time for the music,