Gentle breezes floated through the window and teased her light brown hair. The papers resting in front of her were lifted ever so slightly, then fell to the table, resuming their peaceful, yet taunting, existence. She twirled a pencil around in her hand and let her eyes float across the pages, the granite streaks and lines and dots that miraculously led minds to conjure up new sounds, restrained only by the beat. Sunlight peeked tentatively through the curtains into the kitchen where she sat, as if it awaited an invitation to enter. Casting its rays upon the simple yellow dress, it illuminated the soft brown eyes that so piercingly dissected the papers spread in front of them. A moment of hesitation, a thought, an image, a risk, then the pencil stopped twirling and she wrote, dragged the tool across the page until the white was gone and replaced with black, the shades of music leaving the cage of the mind and manifested upon the sheets. Write one and you have a note; create many and you have a song. Write too many and you have noise; write too few and you leave the air vacant. Her hair fell across her face, distracting her for only a moment – she pushed it aside and continued her conquest. Where was the balance? How to build the glass room without shattering its walls, give the listener the keys to its hidden universe? She wrote another note, scratched it out, wrote a new one, went back and put in the first – never a still piece, never a note in one place for very long. The hours passed – the sunlight snuck away from the window, dejected, as she continued to chase instead the light of imagination glimmering through the windows of the glass room. Black marks appeared and faded, erased and drawn on each spot. Finally she ceased. Her brown eyes perused the sheets in front of her, dead awoken, blank canvases now painted with the imagery and colors of music. So she hoped; had her hand obeyed her head, and her head her heart, the song should fill the room, conjure up the dancers in the shadows of the tiny house. Elegant hands lifted the pages and carried them to the piano, the centerpiece of the musty living room. She arranged them gingerly on the instrument, just so, that she may translate the black-and-white of the imaginary into the black-and-white keys of reality. A smile graced her face, and cautiously, building her courage and passion, she began to play. The notes turned to keys, the keys into sounds, the sounds into a story. They fell off the page, ran across the floor, and fastened themselves to the wall. Each place they touched turned translucent. The walls of the home faded away and turned into glass. The light from outside – not that of the runaway sun, but of some ethereal and intangible world – peeked in, illuminating the new walls and landing on her face. Slowly her fingers played, and slowly the walls were erected; the glass room took shape around her. An architect – she played away, and the room grew taller and wider, until she was surrounded on all sides by its crystal beauty. Hidden in her paradise, she grasped at the keys, each unlocking the door to the glass room. Light caressed her face; the walls vibrated yet never broke; the glass room welcomed her home.