He gave a nod and I played again—a modern and delightful melody by Liszt. She rocked forward and back to this new tempo, attempting to hum along in her guttural voice, sometimes moving her torso in circles, then returning to rocking as she beat the chair arms.

It was contagious, this rhythm she thumped, and a few other patients began to respond. Leg tapping, smiles, and quiet laughter swirled together in the air of that room, joining in with our song and magnifying its rhythm.

Music and silence. Light and dark. When it came to darkness, you could succumb and let it consume you . . . or you could invade it with light of your own.

The nurse backed away and Dr. Turner ran a hand through his hair, leaving his fingers in the black masses as he observed the order coming to this room, led by the most lost soul of them all, whose rhythm had finally been recognized and drawn out. A smile lit my face as I tripped through the song I’d only begun to memorize for a coming performance, keeping the steady beat as Violet gave her entire body over to it, letting the music sink in as no controlling voice or tincture had been able to do.

I drew the song to a close, and Violet slowed her swaying, looking directly at the keyboard without a word, eyes wide but without the frantic flickering back and forth.

“Did you enjoy that, Violet?” My voice was soft. Cautious.

She didn’t respond, but stared at the keys, eyes focused and alert. Dr. Turner knelt before the young woman. “You have a very good sense of rhythm, Violet. I had no idea. There is music inside of you.” He looked at me as he spoke, that open, gentle face creasing into a knowing smile meant only for me. I couldn’t help but smile back, lingering in the fading notes.

He turned her chair. With a whoosh of cool air they left, and normalcy swept back over whatever had just filled the room.

“Very good for the second day,” Harford said, approaching from somewhere behind me. “Perhaps we shall continue tomorrow.”

But my soul was filled. My heart hammered and my brain spun right to, Wait until I tell Marcel.

Then a fresh wave of grief rose up and pummeled me from the other side, knocking me down with the weight of a new reality. Death was the end of so many beautiful things, the ruination of foundational pieces of one’s life. At times the great gaping loss was simply too much for one to reasonably bear.

“By the by,” said the older man, once again leaning down to me. “Thought you might want to see what I dug up last night. I do hope you’ll forgive my abrupt announcement yesterday. If I’d known you didn’t know . . .”