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"Joyful, joyful, Lord, we adore thee..."
Eve's fingers, each with a mind of their own, leave featherlight kisses along the piano's ivorite keys. She can never quite trace the pathway between the notes she plays and the melodies that seep from the instrument's belly, but it pleases something deep inside of her. There's a wordless communion between the keys as she strikes them and the seamless chords that they forge, one that she feels her very soul bear witness to and yet she can never translate it. Her only ever pennyworth is her siren song, because Eve was born with the voice of an angel.
Before her mother died, she used to so delicately recount the days of her second pregnancy, of her unwavering assuredness that she'd actually felt Eve's diaphragm take the shape of a harp in her womb, which is how she'd "always known" her daughter would have said voice of an angel. Before her father died, he nurtured that talent of hers with his every waking moment, largely with her unchallenged spot as the leader of the church choir he'd stewarded—pre-mortem. Before her brother died, he'd always duetted her singing with his own magical handwork, either between the strings of a guitar or upon the keys of a piano.
Sometimes he'd even duetted her voice with his own—on birthdays and Christmases and family reunions, and then once and for all in his final moments.
Understandably, Eve's relationship with the gift she'd been blessed isn't at all what it used to be. It's only when she lays it bare in the name of the Lord, with any genre of gospel to mind, that the peace she'd once sought out within it is restored.
