The first tear tracks through the dust on your cheek. Then another.
You feel a sudden, hot prickle behind your eyelids. You try to swallow it down, but the cantor hits a high, mournful ornamentation, a vocal flutter that sounds like a bird trapped in a cathedral. The first tear tracks through the dust on your cheek
It isn’t sadness. It’s a strange, overwhelming "bright sorrow"—the realization that something this beautiful exists in a world that often feels so gray. For these few minutes, the ceiling has vanished, the walls have dissolved, and you are standing in the center of a harmony that has been ringing since the beginning of time. but the cantor hits a high