Her breath came in short spurts. In. Out. In. Out. Her fingers hovered over the keys, shaking, almost afraid of the task that lay before her. The light shone on the stage, the lone girl next to the voluminous instrument. She was almost unseen, consumed by the shadow of her fear.
The audience waited in anticipation for the miracle girl. The one who was a prodigy. Her playing was renowned, beautiful, whisking you away on a journey in the music, rather than of it.
And it started. And oh! And they were captivated. But still, they thought it had to be more. For they had heard music before, music like this, and it was ethereal, but it had been heard. And so they waited, waited to hear the miracle.
Her fingers were dancing atop the black and white sea of notes. They almost flew across the keyboard in a wild, rhythmic pattern. She could feel the music in her now. In her every bone, every nerve, every touch of every key, she could feel it. And it was hers. Beyond anything else, this was her gift. To be able to take every beat and every note and translate it into her. And when it came out, it was no longer Mozart's or Beethoven's or Bach's. It was hers.
And when, finally, they went home, they were not unhappy, but not full of joy either. It hadn't been the experience that they had imagined, nothing like that which had been described to them. But when they went to close their eyes, they could hear nothing but her lingering notes breathing through the piano. And then they saw.
***
Her breath came in short spurts. In. Out. In. Out.
The audience waited in anticipation for the miracle girl. The one who was a prodigy.
