My world was dark. 

Norah had once led me to the tree that looked out on the fields I should have been working—beside my father like a normal son. I had climbed into the lowest branch, turned my face to where I knew our plowland was, and wonder. Norah said there were mountains. Green mountains, she said, with snow on top so white it blinded you. As if I knew what green was. As if I needed snow to blind me. 

I was sitting there now; the wind rustled the leaves over my head. The earth’s breath was cool and damp after last night’s rain, and the air was laced with birdsong. It was laced with something else, too—my little sister’s voice calling my name. I swiveled away and pretended not to hear. 

“Kiran.” Norah skidded to a stop, panting. “Come on. You’re—not—deaf.” 

I didn’t move. 

Norah breathed hard and finally gulped in enough air to speak. Her sweet, spirited voice was like the taste of wild honey, even when she was upset. “Mama’s been worried. What happened?” 

I shrugged. 

Her voice grew suspicious. “Did those boys come again?” 

I didn’t answer. 

Norah sighed. “What did they do this time?” 

I gripped a branch and swung off the tree. My feet hit the ground with a jolt. I groped around the trunk and the soft grass with my free hand. “Where’s my cane?”

“I don’t know.”

I knew that tone. I clenched my teeth and held out a hand. “Give it back, Norah.”

“Not until you tell me what happened.” 

“The same as always, okay? Now give me my cane!” 

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Norah retorted. 

The long, polished stick hit me in the stomach. I scowled. Papa had carved my name—“Kiran”—on it. At least that’s what he said. I rubbed my thumb over the grooves. He’d drawn the sun, too. A circle, with seven lines extending from it.

Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there, he had always said.

Norah spoke again, and her voice was lower. “Those men came back today.” I froze. 

Not again. I turned to her, sick. “What? When?” 

“Just now, while you were gone.” 

I struck the tree with my cane. Why was I never there when I could help? An icy breeze whipped through my hair. “What did they say?” 

“It didn’t sound good.” 

“What does that mean?” 

No answer. 

“Norah, what does that mean?” My voice was harsh, thick with panic. 

“I don’t know.” Norah’s voice was a pinprick against the silence. “I didn’t understand it all the way. But we can’t take care of the farm. I think…I think they might…” Her voice dropped. “You know.” 

I stood there for a minute, uncomprehending. Then her words’ full meaning rushed upon me like a roaring flood. I knew we’d been behind on the rent ever since Papa passed, but had it been that bad? 

I jammed my fingers through my hair. This never should have happened. I was Mamma’s son, her only son. I should have been the one working these fields to pay our rent. The fields I was standing in. The fields I couldn’t even see. 

I drove the cane into the ground in anger and started walking home. Norah’s footsteps behind me were soft as mice in the long, swaying grass. She didn’t say a word all the way home. Maybe my fuming deterred her. 

I knew we were home when I heard the chickens clucking and Mama’s sweet voice singing an old tune. The soft crunch beneath my feet told me we had stepped onto our dirt path. Norah opened the door for me and I stepped into a cocoon of warmth and linen and Mama’s sweet singing. The rich, creamy scent of potato soup threaded through the air. 

“Kiran! Praise the Maker.” Mama’s footsteps tapped the wooden floor as she hurried over to me, then put my head in her hands and kissed me. Her voice always reminded me of chamomile tea, my favorite. Warm, mellow, and homey. “You know you can’t run off like that. What were you thinking?” 

“Sorry. Just wanted some fresh air.” I wriggled out of her grasp and marched over to the washbasin. I dipped my hands into the tepid, soapy water. “Norah told me about your…visitors.” 

No sound but the crackling of the fire. 

“Well, it’s his fault we’re in this mess, anyway,” Norah burst out. “I thought he ought to know.” 

I jerked my hands from the washbasin and dried them on our scratchy, patched-up excuse for a towel. A knife twisted in my heart. 

“Norah.” Mama’s voice was sharp as a winter wind. “It is not your brother’s fault. None of this is.” Her voice dropped to a whisper I wasn’t supposed to hear. “Do you think he asked to be blind?” 

I tossed down the towel and turned to Mama. “So it’s true, then? We’re being evicted?” Mama sighed in agitation. “No. No, we’ll figure something out—our neighbors will help—” 

I let out a harsh laugh. “Our neighbors? You mean the neighbors who won’t even speak to us because they think we’re cursed?” 

Mama drew in a breath, then let it out in frustration. “We’ll figure something out,” she repeated. “Dinner’s ready, so take your seat. We’re not beggars, not yet.”

Beggars. My stomach turned. Memories and fears came flooding through my mind—the dirty claw that had clutched my wrist in Kingsborough—the fate that haunted my dreams each night—

Norah nudged me. “Sit down, Kiran.” 

Right. I dragged my seat out from the table and plopped into it. Norah laid a bowl of potato soup in front of me, and the billowing steam and creamy scent engulfed my face. Two chairs scraped as Mama and Norah sat. The absence in the fourth chair was almost tangible. Mama said the blessing—another reminder of everything wrong with the world. The father should be the one to say the prayer. 

The father was gone. And his substitute was…well, me. 

Mama cleared her throat. “I’ve been thinking that it might be time for a change of scenery. What do you think?” 

“I like a change of scenery!” said Norah. “Where to?” 

Mama hesitated. “Perhaps…up the mountain?” 

I raised an eyebrow. “Why?” 

“Well.” Mama’s spoon clinked against her bowl. “There’s someone I want you to see.”

“I’d love to see anyone.” 

“I didn’t mean it that way.” Mama took a deep breath. “He’s ten days’ journey north, in the mountains. A recluse, apparently, but a great healer. He—” 

Oh, no. 

“Mama.” I gripped my spoon so tight it hurt. “Please. Not another one.”

“This one’s different—” 

“They’re all different. But they’re always the same!” 

The room fell silent. I thrust my spoon into my mouth. The soup was bland, as usual, but Mama did her best. If Papa were here—if he could work the farm— 

Mama grabbed my hands; hers were worn and callused, a bandage wrapped around one finger. “I know it’s hard. But just trust me one more time. If it doesn’t work, I’ll never take you to another physician, not unless you want to.” 

“We can’t afford it. I can’t let you—” 

“Kiran. You want to see, don’t you?” 

Did I want to see? I nodded. My chest hitched. “But I can’t—we can’t—” I gulped. “Nobody can help me, Mama. We’ve tried them all.” 

I tried to pull my hands away, but she held on. “This one can. I’ve heard story after story. Please trust me, love—one last time.” 

I sniffled. Mama wouldn’t give up until she got her way. Maybe she was hopeful; maybe just desperate. Either way, there would be no rest until I agreed. 

“Fine,” I muttered. She released my hands, and I wiped away my tears. Some man of the house I was. “When do we leave?” 

“Tomorrow morning. Finish your meal, and Norah will help you pack your things.”

Norah and I shared a bedroom, our patched-up, lumpy mattresses lying side by side. We sat on the rough wooden floor, packing our clothes in what bags we had. Crickets trilled outside our single window and blended with the croon of an owl. Muffled shuffling and humming drifted through our door as Mama finished her own preparations. 

“Whatcha thinking about?” said Norah. 

I jammed a shirt into the satchel. “Nothing.” 

“I can tell you’re thinking about something. Also, that’s the wrong pocket.”

I heaved an irritated sigh and shoved my shirt into the other pocket. “Why does it matter what I’m thinking?” 

“Cause it’s bothering you.” She poked my shoulder. “What’s wrong?” 

I grabbed a pair of pants and wadded them up. “Nothing.” 

Norah was silent for a minute. Then her honeyed voice came again, softer. “You’re thinking about the beggar, aren’t you.” 

My hand stopped moving halfway into the satchel. 

The memory, four years old by now, came rushing back as it so often had. We’d been visiting a physician in Kingsborough, and I’d been feeling my way down the street—that horrible street, that hot, dusty, crowded, sour-smelling street. I was nine at the time. Mama had one hand on my arm, but then someone grabbed my cane. It was a man with a loud, cracked voice, jingling a metal cup with a few coins inside. Papa had dropped a coin in the cup, dislodged my cane from the old man’s hands, and hurried us along. 

“A beggar,” he had muttered to Mama. 

“Why was he begging?” I had asked. 

No one replied.

My voice must have been lost in the noise. “Why was he begging?” I asked again, louder. 

Norah, seven at the time, answered bluntly. “He’s blind.” 

Her gentle touch—a hand on my arm—brought me back to our bedroom. “It’ll be okay, Kiran. Mama said this one will work.” 

You don’t know that. But I didn’t say anything. 

Norah kept packing, and finally I recovered enough to finish filling my satchel, too. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that beggar. The blind beggar. 

The beggar that could be me. 

I swallowed—hard. He gnawed at my consciousness day in and day out, a phantom of my future. I needed to be healed. I needed to be saved from that fate. 

But we had tried everything. There was no one left. 

No one, apparently, except the man we were going to see.

***

The next morning, I ascended the mountains I’d never seen. 

The air was cool and clean, like fresh-washed laundry that had dried in a spring breeze. The fragrance of a dozen flowers drifted on the wind. Chickadees and cardinals chirped nearby.

“There aren’t any trees yet—mostly just grass and rocks,” said Norah from a few paces ahead. “But oh, if you could see the sky! It’s so blue—and so big—I don’t think I’ve ever seen it so clear.” 

Blue—clear—might as well have been another language. I kept walking, feeling in front of me with my cane. 

Mama placed her hand on my shoulder and squeezed it just enough. “This will be the one,” she said. “I can feel it.” 

I blew out a breath through my nose. “You say that every time.” 

“Oh, but I’m sure about this one. Look, there’s a signpost for the next town—” 

“I can’t see it, Mama.” 

Mama caught herself and sighed. 

Just as I started to brood, Norah jabbed my rib. “You will soon!” she said with a laugh. “The next town’s only three miles away. That’s three miles closer to you being able to see!” 

I gritted my teeth. Sure. Every step was further from our safe, warm home, deeper into the winter I felt brewing in the breeze. Closer to another fraud, another stack of hopes dashed. No one could do it. No one could fix me. 

***

As soon as the innkeeper noticed my eyes, Mama had to fight to let us stay at all. After nearly ten minutes of pleading and negotiating, we were given the cheapest room, with walls that seemed as thin as a fingernail. The air was stale and sour, reeking of mice and mildew. 

“Pray double hard tonight the gods don’t send a curse on us for lettin’ the likes of him stay at all,” the innkeeper muttered as he slammed our door. 

We ate flavorless broth for dinner, then crawled into our flattened mattresses. Mama was asleep in minutes, but I stayed awake on the straw tick long after, listening to the noisy drinkers on the other side of the wall. 

“Kiran.” Norah’s honeyed voice was a whisper. “Kiran, you awake?” 

“Hm?” I yawned and rolled over on the mattress. “Yeah.” 

“I was just thinking—” 

“Most people do.” 

Her disdainful groan made me smile. “Well,” she said, “aren’t you going to ask what I was thinking about?” 

“I wasn’t planning to, no.” 

“Well, I was thinking about when Papa got sick.” 

My smile faded. I shifted on my straw tick. “Why?”

“’Cause of his dream. Remember his dream? Remember what he said?” 

Of course I remembered what he said. I thought about it every day. “Yeah.” Her covers shifted; she must be propping herself up. “Remember how he said—”

“Shh!” 

“Sorry.” Her voice dropped to a whisper again. “How he said he was sure you were going to see one day?” 

Sure as the sun. I reached over and traced the carvings on my cane. Papa never doubted I would see. He was either brave…or blind. “Yeah. But—but that doesn’t mean anything. He had a fever.” 

“But Kiran, his dream! He saw that man, remember? The carpenter?” 

“He had a fever.” I turned the other way and pulled my mice-nibbled quilt up to my chin. The yeasty scent of beer was almost overpowering. “Just go to sleep.” 

“Fine.” Norah was silent long enough that I hoped she really had gone to sleep. I grimaced at the brawlers on the other side of the wall, then rested in the sound of Mama’s steady breathing. 

Then Norah’s voice seeped through the darkness again. “Kiran?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I believe.” She paused. “Do you?” 

I didn’t answer for a moment. Glass crashed on the other side of the wall. Finally I sighed and turned over. “I wish I could.” 

***

As we climbed higher, the air grew colder. When we came to the town of Laversdatt, Mama told us we’d be staying with her sister, Adalia, whom she hadn’t seen in almost fifteen years. She was well-off, Mama said, married with three children. 

“Wait,” I said as we walked on. “Does she know about…me?” 

Mama was silent for a moment, but she squeezed my hand. “Not yet.” 

It was a short walk further to Adalia’s house. The air raged with birdsong, mingling with the sound of a chilly wind swishing through trees. Mama helped me up the porch steps, and the floorboards squeaked under Norah’s eager bouncing. Mama told her to be still, then knocked on the door. 

The door creaked open, and then came a woman’s voice—loud and saccharine, like too much sugar in a jam. Coupled with the birds screeching overhead, it made my head ache. I kept my face down while she and Mama exchanged pleasantries. 

“Ah, and these are your lovelies! Introduce ’em to me,” said Aunt Adalia. 

“This is Norah, and this is Kiran.” Mama put a hand on my shoulder. 

“Norah! What a goddess.” The gushing voice then turned to me. “And…Kiran? Fine boy. Do look up at me now—you’re quite rude.” 

Mama sucked in a breath and squeezed my shoulder. I bit my lip. 

“You heard her, Kiran.” Mama’s voice was low and controlled. 

I tilted my head upward and heard the sharp intake of breath. The creak of the floorboards as she stepped backward. Blood rushed to my cheeks. Mama rubbed my shoulder, her touch like cool aloe on a burn. 

“Gods be gracious,” said Adalia. “Ah…will he mind sleeping in the cellar?”

Mama drew me closer. “Don’t you have a bedroom?” 

“Well, I thought—ah, you and Norah would be much more comfortable alone. See, it’s not a very large room—and the cellar is warm, of course. There’s a furnace we can heat—” 

“I’ll sleep in the cellar with Kiran, then, if it’s all the same to you.” Mama’s voice was quiet. 

Norah’s was not. “Excuse me? I’ll sleep in the woods if you put Kiran in the cellar!”

Mama hushed her and apologized to our aunt, who, with another sharp inhale, ushered us inside. The room felt cold and dusty, and the seat she offered me was itchy and stiff as rock. The only sound in the house was the ticking of a clock. 

“The children are out at the moment, or I’d let you play with them, Norah,” said Aunt Adalia. “In fact, there’s a new neighbor child to play with. Little Lilian’s been healed.” 

“Lilian?” asked Mama. 

“The Hildens’ little girl. Lovely child, but born under an unlucky star. Her legs were all twisted up. Couldn’t walk, couldn’t run. They saw every doctor you can think of, but none of them could do a thing for the poor lass.” 

I sat up straighter. 

“But then, her parents got wind of some new healer man, a recluse a few days up the mountain. They made the trek last fortnight, and the cripple came home dancing all the way! Most remarkable. It’s been the talk of the village ever since.”

Mama reached over and put her hand on mine. “The healer up the mountain?”

“Aye. Not far at all.” 

“And she can walk.” Mama’s hand was shaking.

“Walk?” Aunt Adalia gave a bubbly chuckle. “Why, she can beat any of my own lads in a footrace.” 

I couldn’t breathe. Mama grabbed my hand and squeezed. 

***

He had healed a cripple? 

Maybe it wasn’t impossible. 

I hardly spoke a word the next day as we walked up the mountain. Our aunt had witnessed it—a cripple went up the mountain and came down walking. But maybe she hadn’t been crippled at all. Maybe our aunt manufactured the story to give me hope. But…it had seemed genuine. 

Then again, maybe her case was different. Broken legs were probably easier than broken eyes. All you had to do was twist the legs back into place, not—well, not whatever you had to do to heal an eye. 

But still. 

We stopped in the very last village on the way, late in the evening. A bitter wind sliced through my clothes as we stood shivering in front of the inn. 

“Please, sir, just let us stay the night.” Mama sounded close to tears. “Give us the cheapest room. Let us sleep in the kitchen.” 

“It’s an ill omen, with that one in tow.” The innkeeper’s voice was thin and stringy. I didn’t need eyes to know he was talking about me. “You said you’re on your way to the healer?”

“Yes.” 

The innkeeper gave a short, harsh laugh. “He won’t be able to do naught. ‘Sides, you see the snowstorm comin’ on? Best turn around.” 

“Maybe we will.” Mama started walking away. 

The door creaked; he was closing it. I shot out my cane and caught the door before it closed. 

“It’s too late to turn around,” I said. “We’ll die if we sleep outside tonight.”

“I’ll die if I allow the likes of you to stay beneath my roof,” he retorted. “The gods will—” 

“The gods will kill you if you let a woman and two children die in the cold,” Norah snapped. 

I jabbed my stick forward, and from his hiss of pain I knew I’d struck his shin. 

Norah exhaled defiantly through her nose. “Let us in.” 

The innkeeper growled like a dog. “Agh, fine. But keep your hoods over your heads.” Still seething, he showed us to a room that was not much warmer than outside, and when he left us he was still muttering something to the gods. Norah dropped her bag on the floor, and a cloud of dust stung my nose. I sneezed. 

“No bed?” said Norah. “Good. Sleeping on the floor promotes circulation.” 

“You made that up.” I started feeling around with my cane. “Are there any mattresses?” 

“Just quilts. They show signs of nibbling, but that’s no problem.” She dropped the quilt and inhaled. “I like the musty scent anyway.” She paused. “Mama? What’s wrong?” 

“Hm? Oh, nothing.” Mama crossed the room; her foot tapped the floor. “This snowstorm…two days left to walk…” 

“What about it?” I asked. 

Mama inhaled. “I don’t know. I just…I just wonder.” She blew out her breath and started humming a tune. 

I rubbed the carvings on my cane. “You wonder if it’s worth it?” 

Mama stopped humming. She sighed. “Yes. Yes, I suppose so. We’ve seen twenty-six physicians since you were a baby. I’ve put you through so much. Constant ups and downs, hopes raised and hopes struck down—” Her voice thickened. “As if you haven’t already been through enough.” 

Norah tossed a quilt onto the floor. “Wait. You aren’t serious about turning around, are you?” 

Silence. 

Norah’s voice rose. “Are you?” 

“I…I just don’t want it to be the same thing as always. I don’t want to get there and it all be a lie.” Mama’s voice came out muffled, as if she had put her hands over her face. “The gods know I’ve had enough of that.” 

So she did know. She had felt my pain, too. 

I took a deep breath. “I want to know if the stories are true.” 

Mama was silent. I would have given anything to see her face, to know what she was thinking. I kept talking. 

“I want to know if he really did heal that crippled girl,” I said. “The worst that can happen is he can’t do anything.” 

My fingers traced the sun on my cane. Norah held her breath. Finally, Mama crossed the room and hugged me. “Alright, then. We leave at first light.”

***

Snowstorms like this were rare in the valley where we lived, and whenever they did happen, we were always inside curled up by the fire, with hot herbal tea and quilts around our shoulders. It was nothing like this. 

The wind scraped my skin like a pair of knives. My fingers and toes had lost feeling long ago, despite my mittens and boots. Norah’s teeth clacked together with chill; the deep snow seeped ice-cold into my stockings. 

We didn’t speak much that day. 

We slept in a cave that night; Mama built a fire and massaged my fingers and toes until they prickled and smarted with feeling again. She sang to us that night above the howling wind. When we woke, the fire was cold, and the wind was even colder. The snow burned when it touched my skin. Mama tried to sing, but her voice cracked and trembled. Ice crusted our bags. 

Around midafternoon, Mama stopped in the snow. 

I ran into her and stood, shivering. 

“I can’t see anything,” cried Mama. “It’s all white, swirling white.” She gasped in air. “Norah, can you see?” 

“No.” Norah’s voice was small and thin in the wind. “Nothing at all.” 

Mama sank into the snow; it crunched beneath her. “Kiran. I’m so sorry.” 

No. We were so close. 

I found Mama’s shoulder and knelt beside her in the snow, my knees screaming with cold. I wrapped my arms around her neck and pressed my icy cheek against hers. I could feel her warm, shaky breath. 

“We have to keep going,” I whispered. 

Mama’s hand curled around my arm. “I can’t see the way.” 

“Then walk in the dark.” I got to my feet and held out a hand. “Follow me.”

So I, the blind boy, led the way. 

Mama held my right arm, and Norah my left. We struggled through the snow for what felt like hours when finally, I heard something. Faint, and distant, but real. It was music. A single violin playing a simple, lovely strain. I turned towards it and struggled through the snow. The wind tossed the music back and forth, but it was there, and I heard it. And Norah and Mama saw something. 

“Lights,” Norah gasped. “Windows! It’s a house!” 

I hobbled along as fast as I could through the snow and wind. Mama helped me up the ice-slick steps while Norah pounded on the door. The music stopped. The door opened, and dizzying warmth flooded out. 

“Kiran,” a man’s voice said, strong and kind. “Well done.” 

He ushered us inside. My fingers were frozen, curled around my cane. The luscious blend of smells and sounds and heat was overwhelming. After so long with nothing but frost and cold and howling wind, the ordinary house stunned all my senses. 

My teeth began to chatter. 

Mama guided me to a soft settee, and she and Norah sat on nearby chairs. My fingers finally thawed enough to let go of my cane, and I flexed them. Pain tingled through my hands. Clocks ticked, fire crackled, and the man hummed a tune behind us as he prepared the tea. Wind clawed at the windows but couldn’t get in. Scents of firewood, clove, and fresh bread mingled in the air. 

The man came back to us and put a warm mug of tea in my icy hands. I gasped at the sudden heat, then tightened my grip. 

“Well, Kiran. Mighty chilly night, isn’t it?” His voice was rich, like earth. 

“Yes, sir.” I furrowed my brow. “How do you know my name?” 

“I have my ways.” He placed his thumbs next to my eyes. I stiffened, then relaxed. His hands were strong and callused—the hands of a workman. A carpenter, if I had to guess from the splinter in one finger. 

“A sickness?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“When you were very young?” 

I nodded and took a sip of my tea. Chamomile and honey. My favorite. 

“Can you do anything, sir?” asked Mama. “I’ve brought money—all that’s left of my savings—” Coins clinked onto a table, and my throat ached. “Please, sir. If there’s anything you can do.” 

“Keep your money,” he said. “This is a gift.” 

Norah spat out her tea. “You mean you’ll do it? You can heal him?” 

The man’s chair creaked. The fire crackled. I held my breath. 

“Well,” he said. “What does Kiran think?” 

My heart skipped a beat. My hair had begun to drip with melted ice, and I wiped the droplets off my forehead. “Me?” 

“Aye. If I told you I would make you see, would you believe me?” 

“I…I don’t know.” 

“I think you can,” Norah piped up. “I’ve known it the whole time. Papa always said Kiran would see one day.” 

The fire popped. Mama drew in a breath. “Yes,” she said. “I believe you can.”

The floorboards creaked. The man was standing. “Kiran?” 

My cheeks flushed. “I don’t know.” 

“Kiran.” The man placed his callused hands on my shoulders. He was so close I could feel his warm, sweet breath. “Do you think I can make you see?” 

I lifted my head. I had never heard a voice like this man’s before. I had never felt a touch like his. And it broke me. 

“Yes.” My eyes filled with hot tears. “Yes. If you want to, you’re able.” 

The man shifted his weight. He must be on his knees. He removed his hands from my shoulders, and I heard the squishy sounds of some kind of paste. My heart sank. “Close your eyes, son,” he said. 

As I did, two tears slipped from beneath my eyelids. The carpenter pressed his thumbs against my eyes; they wiped away my tears. His fingers were cold with the paste I’d heard him use. They all used this paste—and it did nothing. I squirmed. 

“Do you still believe me?” he asked. 

I stopped squirming. “I want to.” I took a deep breath. “Yes.” 

He smoothed the paste over my eyes, then pressed his hands over them. I could feel the hollows of his palms. My eyes burned. My heartbeat quickened, and I grabbed his wrists without thinking. The workman didn’t flinch. His skin was rough and hairy. In the center of each hand was a scar. 

He held his hands over my eyes for a moment, then removed them. My eyes were burning—I gasped with pain. He rubbed away the paste with his thumbs, then took his hands away. 

“Not yet,” he said, so I kept my eyes wrenched shut. A damp, fragrant rag washed over my eyelids, and the water ran down my cheeks like tears. 

The workman ran his thumbs over my eyes one more time, then pressed his rough forehead to mine. He sat back, with his warm, wet hands on my shoulders. “Alright, Kiran. Now.” 

I opened my eyes. 

And I saw light.

Ava Travis

Ava Travis is a young author and homeschool graduate with a passion for writing stories that brim with truth, goodness, and beauty. When she’s not crafting her latest novel, you can find Ava reading good books, playing the piano, nerding out over math and science, or laughing with her four younger siblings.