You got it all wrong, didn't you?
Piano played on your skin, no keys to be found. The braille you wrote was seen, not felt. The silent gestures heard, not seen.
Back to the river, you scrape your hand along the bed, dig your fingers in, see what you can pull up.
The cold water feels so good, a memory your palms bring to your surface. Down below you expect to find ground rocks, sand, dirt - you do not. Only smooth stones are left, black, white, and 27 shades in between - shades whose existence you've never admitted.
Your waters will never be muddied again. Freedom feels nothing like you thought it would.