[ WP ] Your whole life you had an ability that seemed normal to you . Now you realized you 're the only one with this ability .

`` All right... let's do this one again. What is it, number 62? Page 31. Yeah, that one. With the arpeggio.'' our instructor's voice clarified as it gained confidence in its command. `` Ready?'' The clicks of his drum sticks, silver and distinct, cycled throughout the room as its slight echo constructed their pristine, wooden rhythm. 
 
 A wave of skin tones, arms turned javelins and tipped with mallets, cut through the air and swept upwards in unison. Tensed energy broke. A storm of yarn broke over the marimbas as our arms rained down upon the alternating rosemary landscape. 
 
 My hands followed suit with the other classmates, tracing the notes dictated on the lesson booklet and fumbling with the new chords. I sighed as the spectral river, melody incarnate birthed from the dusts of silence, overtook the surface of my mind. The voice of each instrument ebbed and diverged, rising and falling in a complex miasma of fractals. Misty gray plummeted to cold ivory, then bloomed into florid red like gashes into ice. The hesitant pattering of strikes on wooden bars evolved into an iridescent ascension of stars. I reveled in the glory of the song we had created; fumbling, halting, but beautiful nonetheless. We had painted a wonderful shape. One that, with practice, would blossom into greater power. 
 
 The hand of our instructor sliced into the immature symphony, declaring a flaw worthy of halting its movement. Contradicting the elegant flight from before, our hands flopped unceremoniously to our sides. The nebula of sound stuttered to a halt; flickering courageously, it died, the tendrils of colored flame fading and falling back to static and ash. Without pause, he launched into his lecture on the factors of our error and the formula for their adjustment. 
 
 Like the continuous flow of an ocean, the cycle resumed many more times: music, voices. Music, voices. Color coalescing into seething silence. Eventually, we approached the conclusion of our last run. The clock was striking; our lesson had concluded. With the energy of the jubilant young, we covered the delicate instruments and began roughly sheathing the expensive tools back into their cases. A few others lingered behind to joke around with our teacher, playing around erratically with the few items left untouched in the middle of the room. 
 
 A stick bounced off a tom-tom. A flare of orange soared across my vision. 
 
 `` Wow!'' exclaimed the perpetrator, apparently entertained. `` That sounded really high! Almost like on the marimbas. What note would that be?'' 
 
 I looked up from my equipment for an instant and called out distractedly, `` E flat.'' 
 
 At once, almost as if I had stated something offensive, any conversation throughout the room shriveled and died. Feeling eyes burning into me, I stood up and regarded the small group up front. ``... what?'' 
 
 `` You're saying... that this has a note? That you know what it is?'' As if to make a point, he released another smattering of beats upon the drum. Fire danced. Someone quickly wheeled a keyboard to us, ripping off the leather cover and sending it, crackling with compressed air, to the floor. It settled quickly, the gray fuzz of its wake falling into nothing. Retrieving another's mallet, she brought it down upon the appropriate key with the gusto of a blacksmith. The color of midsummer afternoon rang forth again, crystalline and more coherent than upon the drum. `` She's right!'' she exclaimed. `` It's the same sound!'' 
 
 I stuttered, at this point very confused. `` Of course. Everything has a note.'' 
 
 Murmuring erupted in either direction. The instructor widened his eyes and regarded me. `` Of course they do, to varying degrees. But how did you know which one it was? Do you have perfect pitch?'' 
 
 Feeling very much on the spot, I stuttered, `` N—no... I go by the color. E flat is orange.'' When no one responded with the familiarity I was hoping for, I tried again: `` The color from the note! I see the color when it plays.'' 
 
 The tom-tom operator seized another mallet. The scarlet glow of a red dwarf pulsed. `` A.'' 
 
 Dull gray, incarnate of tears and rain. `` D.'' 
 
 Gold, triumphant and grandiose. `` F.'' 
 
 Laughter emanated. `` That's so cool!'' `` What's this note?'' `` What's the bass drum?'' `` I can sing! Which one is this?'' The cacophony of questions preceded the bell, blaring through the intercom and filling my vision with raucous apricot. 
 
 I faced their sparkling eyes, gaping at first. Then my brow furrowed. 
 
 `` You... you mean, this does n't happen to any of you?''
