Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
I picked up my pace as I made my way back to campus, pushing myself more than was wise. I arrived at my dorm, but as my hand hovered above the doorknob, I changed my mind and headed for the music department instead. Even before Lewis had arrived at the college, the rooms were open to students around the clock. The faculty understood that the time of day wasn’t a factor when inspiration hit. Most artistic people were night people. At least the ones I knew.
I swiped my card and made my way down the hallway to a practice room. I had just dropped my purse to the floor when I heard the sound of a piano drifting down the hall.
I stood near the door and closed my eyes, a smile etched on my lips. It was always the same. Whenever I heard music, something happened inside me. Music always seeped into me like damp drizzle on a cold day. I could feel it down to my bones.
Nothing in my life made me as happy as hearing an instrument being played as perfectly as the piano was now. I loved all kinds of instruments. But there was just something about a piano that simply made me feel more. Maybe it was because I would never play it as beautifully as the person playing it now. I didn’t know. All I knew was that the sound gripped hold of my heart and made it so I never wanted to let it go.
The piano stopped. I opened my eyes. I moved to go to the piano in my own room, but then the sound of a violin began. I stopped dead in my tracks and exhaled a short puff of air. It was perfect. Every movement of the bow. I listened harder, trying to place the piece, or even the composer. But I couldn’t…
And then somehow I knew—it was an original piece.
When the violin stopped and the sound of a clarinet floated down the hallway, I realized that the sounds were coming from the largest room, where the loan instruments for the music education majors were stored. I closed my eyes and listened as whoever was in there played them all in turn.
I wasn’t sure how long I listened. But when a silence rang out, my ears mourning the absence of the most breathtaking music I had ever heard, I let out a deep exhale. It felt as though I hadn’t breathed through the tour of each instrument.
I stared at the closed door. The window panel was covered with a shutter. I stood, gathering my thoughts, and the piano played again. But unlike the other piece the musician had played, this one was different. It felt different. The slow notes were somber, the deeper tones the principal of the show. My throat clogged with the sadness the music evoked.
My eyes shone as the piece kept playing. Before I knew it, my feet were moving. My hand softly lay upon the doorknob, but it didn’t turn.
It didn’t turn because I could see the piano through a gap between the shutter and the door. My lungs forgot how to breathe as I looked at the pianist, the creator of those beautiful sounds.
I had seen so many performances in my lifetime, yet none had compared to the rawness of what I had heard tonight. I followed the fingers dancing like birds on a lake. My eyes tracked up a pair of tattooed arms, over a white sleeveless shirt, over stubble-dark cheeks and silver piercings.
Then they locked on a single teardrop. A falling drop that rolled down the tanned cheek to splash on the ivory keys that were pouring with sounds of pain and hurt and regret.
My chest was stricken, reacting to the wordless story the music was telling. As I stared at Cromwell’s face, it was like seeing it for the first time. Gone were the arrogance and the anger he wore like a shield. The shield was lowered, and a boy I didn’t recognize was laid bare.
I’d never seen anyone so beautiful.
I stayed there, heart in my throat, as he played, face stoic but traitorous tears displaying his pain. His fingers never hit a wrong note. He was perfect as he told me a story I would never know yet completely understood.
His fingers slowed, and as I looked closer, I saw they were shaking. His hands danced their way to the finale, a long, haunting note drawing the beautiful melody to a close.
Cromwell’s head bowed, and his shoulders shook. My lip trembled as I felt the depths of his despair. He wiped at his eyes and tipped back his head.
I watched him breathe. I watched him in his silence. I watched in reverie as I let it sink in—Cromwell Dean was the hope I had always dreamed him to be.