Polished wood. Old paper. Something faintly familiar—but out of place.
For a moment, I couldn’t identify it.
Then it hit me.
Sheet music. Wood polish. The scent of a music room.
I turned on the light… and froze.
In the center of the room stood a beautiful upright piano—dark wood, polished to perfection.
The walls were lined with shelves filled with sheet music, recordings, and books on music theory.
On the piano bench sat neatly stacked sheets of music.
I stepped closer and picked one up.
“Clair de Lune” by Debussy. My favorite.
I had mentioned that to Robert once—decades ago—back when I still played.
Another piece sat on the music stand.
“Moonlight Sonata.”
Another favorite.
I looked around more carefully.
On a small table in the corner were recordings, each carefully labeled with dates.
I picked one up.
“For Daisy – December 2018.”
Another.
“For Daisy – March 2020.”
There were dozens… spanning years.
Then I noticed something else on the table—medical reports.
Dated six months before Robert died.
“Diagnosis: severe heart condition.
Prognosis: limited time.”
He had known.
Beside them 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 his death.
He had planned all of this.
Next to the contract was a journal.
I opened it with trembling 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 moment.
We had been cleaning out the garage. I had found my old sheet music in a box, flipped through it, smiled… and put it away.
I thought I had forgotten.
But Robert hadn’t.
The next entry read:
“I’ve decided to learn piano. I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family.”
Tears streamed down my face as I continued 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 struggles:
“Today I tried to play a simple scale and my fingers felt like they belonged to someone else. This is harder than I thought.”
About his frustration:
“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.”
But then, his determination:
“I’m not giving up. Daisy never gave up on me. I won’t give up on this.”
And finally, 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.”
The entries grew 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.”
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