A Shadowed Practice

The late afternoon sun, usually a warm embrace, felt muted today, filtered through the lace curtains of Addie’s bedroom window. Dust motes danced in the pale shafts of light, tiny performers in a silent ballet. On her desk, textbooks lay open, their pages filled with the dry, uninviting language of algebra and history. Addie traced the outline of a complex equation with her finger, but her mind was miles away, caught in the echo of a melody that had been humming in her soul all morning. It was the piece Aunt Clara had hummed to her, a simple, lilting tune that spoke of meadows and open skies, a stark contrast to the closed-in feeling that had settled over her since the flute had been placed on the highest shelf of the hall closet.

A sigh escaped her lips, soft as a moth’s wing. Her parents believed in focus, in the tangible results of diligent study. Music, to them, was an indulgence, a frivolous detour from the well-trodden path to a secure future. They didn’t understand the way a song could fill the empty spaces inside her, the way a flute’s clear voice could articulate emotions she couldn’t otherwise express. They saw a distraction; she saw a lifeline.

She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Almost time for Aunt Clara’s quiet return from her errands. Aunt Clara, with her gentle smile and eyes that held the warmth of a thousand summer afternoons, was Addie’s sanctuary. While her parents saw the world in stark black and white, Aunt Clara saw it in a symphony of colors, and she recognized the music in Addie’s heart.