Her hands moved over the piano; she played quietly, constellation eyes half closed, heart wide open. She sang, but only in her head, only in the place where she wouldn’t hear anyone else comment on her tone, on her pitch, on her projection. Fitful, she half-smiled, dreaming of all the places she’d been, all the memories that lived within her.
All the everything.
Now and then, the darker ones rose, and she drifted off into a minor key. It usually took awhile to come back around to something that would let her ease back into major chords without complaint. Her feet swung from the bench, one sneakered, one bare, until she needed to use the pedals.
When she opened her eyes, she stared longingly at a slim, iridescent feather on the raised keycover, and played even louder, as though somehow, in some way, the music would reach those who needed it most.
Those she needed most.