“Probably not. But that may be to her benefit.” It had slowly come out that the loss was due to my father, her stepfather, when he had boxed her ears years ago for botching a performance. The problem grew worse until it was nearly complete. She was afraid of what might become of her if her musician stepfather discovered her affliction, so she hid it. Continued composing and playing, pretending she could hear him when he yelled. Nearly lost her sanity keeping up the charade.

She lived in mortal fear and finally lashed out in anger, attacking him with the depth of her terror when she could not hear a word he said, and he had her removed to an attic room of our home for several years, and then to Hurstwell when people began to ask questions. He paid to have her and her lovely music locked away in the forgotten tower as one whose value had expired, so no one would ever know what had come of the enchanting stepchild of Winston Mourdant who had once been a budding performer.

“She’s playing Beethoven right now. His final symphony, written in his worst season.” I watched her flowing fingers climb and descend the keyboard with the effortlessness of a waterfall dripping over rocks. “Imagine, a deaf musician creating music he cannot hear.”

I wondered if this final piece might have been less brilliant if he could have. Some prisons bring great freedom.

“How does she do it? How can she play?”

“She plays by feel.” I put my hand against the doorframe and felt the vibration. “She knows by the vibrations of sound on walls, on furniture, if she’s hit a wrong note, and she plays most everything from memory.”

Together we watched her smile at the patient as she played.

“Say, you’ve not dusted the keys of our old instrument in a day or two, you know. Ought to make sure it still plays.” She gave me a friendly jab and returned to her duties.

Her suggestion triggered my desire, and I was soon sitting at Hurstwell’s beautiful old Broadwood, bathed in the pale yellow sunlight streaming through open windows and lightly blowing curtains. I swam in the clear waters of Mozart, my heavy soul beginning to lift. I had found such freedom—even before my release from this place.

After a pause, I closed my eyes to acknowledge the presence of God filling this room, filling my soul, and followed the direction of my overfull heart toward the song that had once lifted to the rafters of our old church in Manchester.

I wandered in the shades of night,

Till Jesus came to me,

And with the sunlight of His love

Bid all my darkness flee.

Warmth spread through my body, even in the chill of early morning.

However dark the world may be,

I’ve sunlight in my soul.