I looked around the room more carefully.
On the same table, I found medical reports. Dated six months before Robert died.
“Diagnosis: severe heart condition.
Prognosis: limited time.”
Robert had known.
Beside the medical reports lay a contract with a building caretaker, detailing instructions to deliver the flowers and the envelope to me on the first Valentine’s Day after Robert’s death.
He’d planned this.
Robert had known.
Next to the contract was a journal. I opened it with numb hands.
The first entry was dated 25 years ago.
“Today, Daisy mentioned her old piano. She said, ‘I used to dream of being a pianist. Playing in concert halls. But life had other plans.’ She laughed when she said it, but I saw the sadness in her eyes.”
I remembered that conversation. We’d been cleaning out the garage when I found my old sheet music in a box. I’d flipped through it, smiled, and put it away.
I thought I’d forgotten about it. But Robert had listened.
“I saw the sadness in her eyes.”
The next entry:
“I’ve decided to learn piano. I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family.”
I started crying as I kept reading.
About his lessons:
“Signed up for piano lessons today. The instructor is half my age. She looked skeptical when I told her I’m a complete beginner.”
About his failures:
“Today I tried to play a simple scale and my fingers felt like they belonged to someone else. This is harder than I thought.”
“I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family.”
About his frustrations.
“I’ve been at this for six months and I still can’t play a simple melody without mistakes. Maybe I’m too old to learn.”
About his determination:
“I’m not giving up. Daisy never gave up on me. I won’t give up on this.”
About his progress:
“Today I played ‘Clair de Lune’ all the way through. It wasn’t perfect, but it was recognizable. I recorded it for her.”
“Daisy never gave up on me.”
I turned the page. The entries got shorter near the end.
“The doctor says my heart is giving out. I don’t have much time. But I need to finish one more piece.”
“Daisy asked me yesterday why I’ve been gone so much. I told her I was visiting old friends. I hated lying to her. But I can’t tell her yet. Not until it’s finished.”
“My hands shake now when I play. But I keep practicing. For her.”
“This will be my last composition. I’m writing it myself. For her. I want it to be perfect. She deserves perfection.”
“I hated lying to her.”
The last entry was dated a week before he died: “I’m out of time. I’m sorry, my love. I couldn’t finish.”
I closed the journal and looked at the piano. On the music stand was a piece of sheet music. Handwritten in Robert’s cursive script.
The title at the top read: “For My Daisy.”
I picked it up. The music was beautiful. Complex. And carefully notated.
But it stopped halfway through the second page.
The rest was blank. He’d run out of time.
It stopped halfway through the second page.
I sat down on the piano bench. It creaked softly beneath me, and a thin ribbon of sunlight through the window caught the dust in the air.
My fingers hovered over the keys.
I looked at Robert’s unfinished composition. At the notes he’d written with such care.
I placed the sheet on the stand and positioned my hands over the keys. And I started to play.
The first few notes were hesitant. My fingers didn’t remember at first. But then, slowly, they did.
Muscle memory from six decades ago came flooding back.
My fingers didn’t remember at first.
I played the melody Robert had written. It was beautiful. Tender. Loving. Full of longing.
When I reached the place where the music stopped, I paused. Then I kept playing. I let my hands find the notes Robert hadn’t had time to write.
I finished the melody. Added harmonies. Resolved the phrases. Made it complete. It took me over an hour.
When I played the final chord, I sat there for a long time with my hands still on the keys.
Then I noticed something on the piano. A small envelope tucked behind the music stand.
I played the melody Robert had written.
I opened it. Inside was a note:
“My darling Daisy,
I wanted to give you something you couldn’t refuse or argue about. Something that was just for you.
This piano is yours now. This studio is yours. Play again, my love.
And know that even though I’m gone, I’m still here. In every note. In every chord. In every song.
I loved you from the moment I saw you in that college library with sheet music tucked under your arm. I loved you when you were 20 and when you were 80. I’ll love you forever.
Always yours, Robert.”
“Even though I’m gone, I’m still here.”
I folded the letter carefully and put it in my pocket.
Then I looked around the studio one more time.
I vowed to come back. Because Robert had given me more than a secret. He’d given me back the dream.
I visit the studio twice a week now. Sometimes I play. Sometimes I just listen to his recordings.
My daughter came with me once. I played one of Robert’s recordings for her.
Robert had given me more than a secret.
My fingers stumbled in a few places. The tempo wasn’t quite right. But it was full of love.
She cried when she heard it.
Last week, I recorded my first piece in 60 years. My hands aren’t as nimble as they used to be. I made mistakes. Had to start over several times. But I finished it.
I labeled the recording: “For Robert.” And I placed it on the shelf next to all of his.
Now we’re together again. In the only way that matters.
For 63 years, he gave me flowers. And from beyond, he gave me back the dream I’d forgotten I had.
We’re together again.
