She lives in a world filled with music, and her whole vision is colored by it. Everyone else has nothing but silence and a black-and-white photograph of a rainbow. Her music soaks through her skin, down to her very bones, and it fills her soul with song. She sings along, not wanting her silence to blaspheme this beauty.

Everyone else stares at her with the prejudice that only silence and stagnation can create. Maybe before now, she had stopped singing and suppressed her joy. Maybe before now, she had feared those eyes of hatred more than she feared the loss of beauty. But not today.

Today, she stands up and dances. She closes her eyes and dances, letting the rhythm of the music pull her in. And she can't see the others, who are chained by their silence while she is freed by color. She can't see them, because they are not important. They are petty and small, and their soundless yapping is lost beneath the music.

Maybe, someone else is watching her. Maybe his envy dissolves as he watches her joy that is at once both childlike and ageless. And maybe, just maybe, he starts to hear her music, just a faint tune that is only a small part of the whole melody.

And the music soars to a roaring crescendo that he can hear as she dances. He doesn't sing with it, or dance to it, or do anything but watch the girl's joy. But maybe he will someday. Maybe soon, the music will pull him to her, and the music will swell up around them as they dance. So she dances, lost to the music and the song and the freedom and the promise of the maybe.