Chapter Text
“Latte for Maka Albarn?”
Maka’s head shot up when she heard her name, hurriedly rushing to the counter where her drink sat. “At last,” she muttered, carrying it over to the condiments bar, grabbing two sugar packets and a napkin.
Maka opened her laptop, jogging her mind for any inspiration to continue her writing. She had an adoration for literature and majored it for college. Her professor had recommended a writing course that supported and encouraged aspiring authors. Of course, she signed up right away. The course was difficult, though and an assignment to complete a short-story was due.
Minutes passed, and she had barely written a sentence. Maka groaned. She had hit a major roadblock.
After a few hours, she realised that someone had begun to play the piano. Maka paused her writing and stared at the stage. She couldn’t see the pianist’s face, just a small glimpse of white hair and a headband. It wasn’t uncommon for teenagers or the once-in-a-while professional musician to perform, and it was always lovely, but she never paid much attention to it. Until now.
She recognised the pianist as one of the more common performers in the cafe, bringing classical pieces to the modern setting. Never had she heard him play something like this.
She listened in awe as a story seemed to be spun by the notes that were played. The music sped up to allegro, projecting the sound of wishful dreams and happiness onto the audience. Maka, along with many others in the cafe, listened. Suddenly, the tone changed and the tempo slowed, turning the song into an angry, mournful tune that sent chills down her spine. She found herself holding her breath as the notes flew about in a whirlwind of despair and loss.
The song was weeping.
An idea came to her at last. She could write the story of a jovial character who hasn’t got a care in the world until they are met with a cruel reality that they must learn to adapt to. The number continued drearily, never returning to the festive, bright tempo it had begun with and instead coming to terms with a neutral, slow tune.
The pianist stood, avoiding eye contact with the people in the audience. A few soft claps were heard, but that was it. Maka blinked. She knew it wasn’t uncommon for people to come, play their piece, and leave without expecting any sort of appraisal, but this man deserved it. She watched as the people proceeded to converse and continue their days as if they hadn’t just heard a breathtaking piece of music that had enraptured the whole cafe for a good five minutes.
She felt her cheeks heating up in frustration at the lack of appreciation there’d been for the young man. He started to collect his belongings, taking his backpack and shoving a notebook into it. Maka noticed in surprise that he hadn’t used any sheet music for the piece he’d just played.
“Excuse me, sir?” she called out, wanting to tell him his music was wonderful. He didn’t reply, not even turning his head to her, and instead walked to the line. Maka frowned in distaste.
“He can’t hear you, love,” a woman in a booth near to her spoke up. Maka turned to her, puzzled, and the lady, who must’ve been in her sixties, explained, “that boy’s been deaf for six years.”
Her jaw dropped open in shock. She whipped her head back to see the young pianist who was ordering a drink at the counter.
“Was that piece… yours?” she whispered, her eyes watching as he trudged out of the cafe with sunken eyes, very much the walking epitome of the music she had just heard him play.
All his life, he had known silence. Even before he’d lost his hearing.
In brutal honesty, being deaf wasn’t as bad as Soul Evans had initially thought it’d be. He could allow himself to drown in the lonely, yet comforting silence that surrounded him without having to cover his ears anymore. In his high-achieving family, he’d never wanted to associate in the life they had carved for him. His only relaxation was his own music. If he couldn’t have his music, silence it was. He preferred to withdraw and leave everything up to his imagination. At least, now he didn’t have an excuse. The silence was a comfort.
When he had first lost his hearing, he felt as though he’d lost music as well. He’d broken down in the hospital room and cried into his brother’s arms for hours. At home, he was the only one who couldn’t hear the sobs that echoed from his room and rattled the house like a thunderstorm at night, despite being the one who produced them. Soul learned to live with it and told himself that no matter if he was deaf, or blind, or lost an arm or a leg, piano and music would always be a part of his life.
Soul had grown up around music, knowing nothing but piano lessons and the fact that his mum was a successful singer and his brother Wes was a musical prodigy. He knew he disliked the family path of musical fame from the very beginning when he had his first piano recital at the age of four. He had made many mistakes, and it felt as though the whole world had frowned. The other four-year-olds had surely been judging him. His mother had him practice the piece for hours that night, embarrassed beyond belief about the number of fellow musicians who had questioned her about her son’s poor piano performance.
Despite his resentment towards his family’s lifestyle and the fate he seemed to have in the world of music, he still decided to perform in the Cafe Maganda. He didn’t mind, for some reason. Soul realised that this piano, this environment, would be nothing but welcoming to him because they had no expectations of him. Besides, he still loved music. His family couldn’t stop him from playing what he wanted.
He accepted and worked with the thought that no one in the cafe cared about what he was playing, or his existence. Sometimes they would clap, and maybe a few kids would come to him, but he had decided with himself that just as the customer of Cafe Maganda would expect nothing from him, he would expect nothing from them either. So when one day, a girl with ashy blonde hair walked up to him and signed “Hello”, he was in absolute disbelief.