The bus hissed to a stop and Grace leapt
down the steps, violin case bumping against her coat.
Her fingers, inside woolen gloves,
mimed scales and arpeggios with invisible precision as she hurried towards the
Juilliard School of Music.
Her dreams were about to be
realized. Twelve years in the making. All those hours hunched over sheet music.
All the competitions, the rejections, the wins. It had brought her here, to
this city, to this moment.
A cold wind tore through her coat
as she neared the entrance, hugging the violin case against her side. She was
mere steps from the door when her foot slipped, quick and merciless on a patch
of black ice. She fell awkwardly, arms flailing, violin case flying from her
grasp, hitting the pavement just ahead of her.
She landed hard on top of the case,
hand and wrist taking the brunt of the fall. A sickening crunch followed, along with white-hot
pain that exploded through her wrist, shooting up her arm like burning fire.
*_*
Morning sunlight filtered through
the lace curtains in Grace’s childhood bedroom, casting soft patterns on the
faded blue walls. She sat by the window in a patchwork robe, right hand wrapped
in a stiff brace. A cup of untouched tea cooled on the nightstand beside her.
Her mother appeared in the doorway.
“Church starts in twenty minutes,” she said gently. “I can wait if you’d like
to come.”
“I’m not going.”
A pause. Her mother’s sigh was
soft, but it filled the room like a hollow note.
“All right, honey. We’ll be back by
noon.” She hesitated. “You know Pastor David’s been asking about you.”
“Let him ask,” Grace muttered, eyes
fixed on nothing as her mother closed the door behind her.
Grace pressed her forehead against
the cold glass. She had been home for six weeks. Six weeks of splintered bones,
of botched surgeries, and specialists with tired eyes saying maybe she’d
recover some mobility but would make no promises.
Her violin case now sat in the back
of the closet, untouched, out of sight.
She closed her eyes and whispered bitterly
into the silence, “Why did You give me this gift if you just meant to take
it away?”
But no answer came.
*_*
She hadn’t meant to stop at the
church. It was just a detour on her walk, a way to stretch her legs and escape
the walls that pressed tighter each day. But as she passed the chapel’s old
wooden doors, she heard it, violin notes slicing through the air like fingernails
on a chalkboard.
Grace winced at the off-key notes. Even
as a beginner, she’d never played this poorly. She found herself stepping
inside before she could second-guess the instinct.
The sanctuary was dim, sunlight
slanted through tall stained-glass windows, dust notes swirling like incense. A
boy stood with a violin tucked awkwardly beneath his chin, jerking bow across
string in an graceless, stuttering rhythm.
It was painful. And oddly
endearing.
He couldn’t have been older than
eleven, a skinny kid in a faded hoodie and mismatched socks, the violin clearly
too big for him. He didn’t see her enter as he mangled another note. Then
another.
“Whoa,”
Grace said, louder than intended.
The boy
lowered the bow, turning toward her voice. His gaze didn’t land. It hovered.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, panic
rising. “I know I’m not supposed to be here. I just… I wanted to try it.”
“I
didn’t say stop.” Grace moved closer, curious now. “Where did you get that
violin?”
“Someone
left it in the lost-and-found. It’s been there for months.”
“You’re trying to teach yourself to
play?” she asked, incredulous.
“And how’s that going?”
His grin was wide and unapologetic.
“Terrible. But I love it.”
Something painful shifted in her chest.
“Do
you… know how to play?” he asked, shyly, tilting his head like he could hear
the answer in her breathing.
“I used
to,” she said.
He hesitated.
“Would you teach me?”
Grace
opened her mouth to say no, to walk away, to avoid the ache she knew would
follow.
Instead,
she said, “I can try.”
*_*
At first, the lessons were agony.
Not because of Leo. He was eager
and bright.
But there was no magic in positioning
Leo’s arm to hold the bow correctly, placing his fingers on the strings,
pressing her fingers into his as she showed him the notes.
She missed playing. She missed what
she used to be.
Worse was the sound. Every squeal,
every missed note Leo played felt like a blade drawn across old wounds. A
reminder of what she’d lost. Sometimes she had to bite her tongue to keep from
crying out.
And through it all, God remained
silent.
She still asked the question, late
at night, curled in bed with the ache still burning in her bones.
Why did You give me this gift,
only to take it away?
Blind Leo didn’t ask questions like
that. He just showed up.
Twice a week at the church
sanctuary, bundled in layers too thin for winter, with his too-big violin and a
smile that never seemed to dim. His fingers fumbled and flailed, but he never
quit.
He’d laugh when he missed a note,
ask for feedback eagerly, and sometimes, just sit in the pew and listen to
Grace hum a melody for him to follow. He didn’t care that she couldn’t play
anymore.
He only cared that she was there.
Then, one Thursday afternoon they
were working through “Ode to Joy,” and Leo was halfway through the opening when
he paused and said, “This part feels like sunshine. Like… when you turn your
face to the light.”
Something shifted in Grace’s heart.
He tilted his head. “Is that
weird?”
“No,” she said softly. “It’s not
weird at all.”
Week by week, she saw it more
clearly. Not in the music, but in him. The way he listened, how he struggled through
every challenge, not because he thought he’d be great, but because he loved it.
After a while, she no longer heard
the mistakes. Instead, she heard the light.
And slowly, unexpectedly, her heart
began to thaw in that light.
She started to look forward to the lessons.
She found new ways to explain tone and technique without demonstrating. She
laughed more. Hummed more. And when Leo got something right, really right,
she’d feel a spark in her chest that was almost, almost, like playing again.
One afternoon, after a particularly
clumsy run-through, Leo rubbed his temple and groaned, “I’m never going to get
this.”
Grace smiled and crouched beside
him. “You will. You already are. Better every week.”
He looked toward her voice. “You think
so?”
“I know so.”
He was quiet a moment. “You’re a good
teacher,” he said.
The words landed in her heart like
a note long held, rich and true.
Something deep inside her, something
sacred and wounded, healed then, filling her with new purpose.
For the first time in months, Grace
didn’t ache to perform.
She ached to teach.
