‘She doesn’t speak, only plays. A savant.’

The young girl seemed hesitant to leave the cold, coarse shelter of her guardian’s looming shadow. When his brusque prod forced her across the threshold, her body shrivelled, as if recoiling from the warm airiness of the Maestro’s studio.

A protective instinct made him dim the lights before asking her to play.

With the violin cradled between shoulder and chin she came to life, as a sapling in a dense wood stretches toward the sun.

In the rich tones she coaxed from her instrument, the Maestro heard a brief, bitter biography of her silenced grief. He stepped behind his new pupil to wipe away ineffectual tears.

‘I once knew a luthier,’ said the Maestro, when her small recital was complete. ‘A master of his art. He told me once how it sorrowed him to shape the wood, which once sang the symphonies of the Earth’s vast forests, into a body whose music must be reduced to a single line of notes.’

A sudden brightness on the child’s face made him think she’d understood. He readied himself to hear her first words, released like quivering strings on ancient wood, surrendering to the singularity of melody.

Instead, the looming shadow returned, marking the lesson’s end.

The violin hung lifelessly from the child’s limp arm.

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Would you like to know more about this story? I discuss it in Episode 106 of Structured Visions, Prosody and peak experiences. You can also sign up to the Grammar for Dreamers newsletter to get monthly updates on the ideas that inspire my work.