How could she paint the warmth of a cello's lower register when her brush only offered ochre, not the reverberating hum that vibrated through her very bones? Mia stared at the canvas, a frustrated sigh escaping her lips. The vibrant, swirling symphony that had just pulsed through her mind, a spontaneous composition born from the quiet rustle of autumn leaves against her window pane, remained stubbornly trapped behind the glass of her synesthesia, mocking her meager attempts at translation. She'd tried everything. Charcoal, for the sharp, staccato bursts that felt like jagged obsidian against an unseen percussion. Watercolors, for the liquid, flowing melodies that often resembled glacial rivers or molten gold. Even a new digital drawing tablet, borrowed from the library after Mrs. Henderson had gushed about its

Chapter 38: Canvas of Sound