"The piece you played," Professor Vasquez said, "it told a story. I could feel it. There was so much emotion in every note. What were you thinking about while you played?"
Maya was quiet for a moment. No one had ever asked her a question like that before; no one had ever wanted to know what was behind the music.
"I was thinking about my father," she said finally. "He was the one who taught me to play. He loved the piano more than anything in the world. When I was little, he would sit me on his lap and show me the keys. He would play songs for me and tell me stories about the composers who wrote them." She paused, her throat tight. "When we came to America, everything changed. My father could not find work as a music teacher here. He had to work in a factory. But every night, no matter how tired he was, he would come home and play. He said the piano kept his soul alive."
Professor Vasquez sat down on the edge of the piano bench next to Maya. She did not say anything; she just listened.
"We had an old piano," Maya continued. "It was not a very good one, but it was ours. My father brought it all the way from China. He said it was the most valuable thing we owned. He taught me everything he knew on that piano. Every night after dinner, we would practice together. He was so patient with me. He never got angry when I made mistakes; he would just smile and say, 'Try again, Maya. The music is waiting for you.'"
Dr. Webb had come to stand nearby as well. All three judges were gathered around the piano now, listening to Maya's story.
"When I was sixteen, my father got sick," Maya said. Her voice was barely more than a whisper now. "Cancer. He could not work anymore. The medical bills were very expensive. My mother tried her best, but it was not enough. We had to sell everything we had." She looked down at the piano keys, remembering. "The hardest day was when we sold the piano. My father cried. I had never seen him cry before. Two men came and carried it away, and my father just sat in his chair, looking out the window. He did not speak for the rest of the day."
Professor Vasquez reached out and gently touched Maya's hand.
"Six months later, he died," Maya said. "I was holding his hand when it happened. The last thing he said to me was, 'Keep playing, Maya. Promise me you will keep playing.'"
The room was completely silent; even the air seemed to hold still.
"I promised him," Maya said. "But I did not have a piano anymore. I did not have money for lessons or for a new instrument. So I found other ways. I went to the church near our apartment and asked if I could use their piano. The pastor said yes, but only for one hour on Sundays. That was all the practice time I had." She looked up at the judges. "Do you know what it is like to love something so much, but only be able to touch it for one hour a week? Do you know how hard it is to keep a promise when everything seems impossible?"
None of them answered; they did not need to. The answer was written in the music Maya had just played.
"On the nights when I could not sleep, I would practice on a cardboard keyboard," Maya said. "I drew the keys with a marker on a piece of cardboard. It made no sound, but I would move my fingers over it and imagine the music. I could hear it in my head: every note, every chord. That is how I wrote the piece I played for you—in my imagination, on a silent keyboard in the middle of the night."