My name is Daisy. I’m 83 years old, and I’ve been a widow for four months.

Robert proposed to me on Valentine’s Day in 1962. We were just two college kids sharing a dorm kitchen that always smelled faintly of burned toast. That night he made spaghetti with jarred sauce and garlic bread that was charred on one side. He handed me a small bouquet of roses wrapped in newspaper and a silver ring he’d paid for with two weeks of dishwashing wages.

From that day forward, he never missed a Valentine’s Day.

Not once.

Some years it was wildflowers he’d picked himself when money was tight. Some years it was elegant long-stemmed roses when his business was doing well. The year we lost our second baby, he brought me daisies instead of roses.

“Even in the hard years, I’m here,” he whispered when I cried into his chest.

The flowers were never just flowers. They were a promise. Through arguments, grief, illnesses, and all the ordinary storms of marriage, he always came back with flowers.

Robert died in the fall. A heart attack. The doctor said it was quick.

Quick for him.

Not for me.

The house grew unbearably quiet. His slippers stayed beside the bed. His coffee mug still hung on its hook. Every morning I set out two cups of tea out of habit before remembering there was only one pair of hands left to hold a cup.

When Valentine’s Day arrived, I expected nothing but silence.

I lay in bed that morning staring at the ceiling, bracing myself for the emptiness of the first February 14th without him. I made my tea and sat at the kitchen table, staring at his empty chair.

Then someone knocked.

I wasn’t expecting anyone.

When I opened the door, there was no one there. Just a bouquet of roses on the mat. Wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Just like in 1962.

My hands trembled as I carried them inside. Tucked between the stems was an envelope. Inside was a letter in Robert’s unmistakable handwriting.

And a key.

“My love,” it began, “if you’re reading this, I am no longer by your side.”

I had to stop and breathe.

“There is something I have hidden from you our entire life. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do otherwise. In this envelope is the key to an apartment. You must go there.”

Hidden?

My mind raced back over decades. Business trips. Late nights. A phone call once taken outside in the rain. I had asked him, long ago, if there was anything he wasn’t telling me.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he’d said, kissing my forehead.

Had there been someone else?

The thought made me physically ill.

Still, I needed the truth.

I called a taxi and sat in the back seat, barely hearing the young driver’s attempts at small talk. We drove across town to a quiet neighborhood I’d never visited.

The brick building had a green door. I stood on the sidewalk for several long minutes before unlocking it.

The smell hit me first.

Polished wood. Old paper. Something faintly sweet and dusty.

Then I knew.

Sheet music.

When I turned on the light, my breath left me.

In the center of the room stood a beautiful upright piano. Dark wood, gleaming. The walls were lined with shelves filled with sheet music, music theory books, and neatly labeled recordings.

On the piano bench sat a stack of pages.

I picked one up.

“Clair de Lune.”

My favorite piece. I had mentioned that once, decades ago, when we were young and I still played.

On the stand was “Moonlight Sonata.” Another favorite.

On a small table were dozens of recordings, each labeled in careful handwriting: “For Daisy – December 2018.” “For Daisy – March 2020.” They stretched back years.

My throat tightened.

Beside them were medical reports. Dated six months before he died.

Severe heart condition. Limited time.

Robert had known.

There was also a contract with the building’s caretaker instructing him to deliver the flowers and key on the first Valentine’s Day after Robert’s death.

He had planned even that.

A journal lay nearby. I opened it.

“Today Daisy mentioned her old piano,” one entry read, dated twenty-five years ago. “She said she once dreamed of being a pianist. She laughed, but I saw the sadness.”

I remembered that moment. I had found my old sheet music in a box and tucked it away again. Life had been too full of children, bills, responsibilities.

He hadn’t forgotten.

“I’ve decided to learn piano,” another entry said. “I want to give her back the dream she gave up.”

I covered my mouth and sobbed.

Page after page described his lessons. His embarrassment at being the oldest student in the room. His frustration at stiff fingers. His determination.

“Daisy never gave up on me. I won’t give up on this.”

Then, near the end:

“My hands shake now. The doctor says I’m running out of time. I must finish one more piece.”

The final entry was dated a week before he died.

“I’m sorry, my love. I couldn’t finish.”

On the music stand was a handwritten composition titled “For My Daisy.”

It was beautiful. Tender. Intricate.

And unfinished.

It stopped halfway down the second page.

I sat at the bench. It creaked beneath me. Dust floated in a thin beam of light.

My fingers hovered uncertainly above the keys. They hadn’t touched a piano in sixty years.

The first notes were hesitant.

Then something inside me remembered.

Muscle memory returned like an old friend. The melody Robert had written unfolded beneath my hands—full of longing and quiet devotion.

When I reached the unfinished measure, I paused.

Then I kept playing.

I let my hands find the notes he hadn’t had time to write. I resolved the melody, softened the tension, completed the phrase the way I believed he meant it to end.

When the final chord settled into silence, I sat there with tears running down my face.

Behind the music stand was one last envelope.

“My darling Daisy,

This piano is yours. This studio is yours. Play again.

Even though I’m gone, I am still here. In every note. In every chord.

I loved you at twenty. I loved you at eighty. I will love you forever.

Always yours, Robert.”

I pressed the letter to my chest.

He hadn’t hidden another life.

He had built a secret dream for me.

Now I visit the studio twice a week. Sometimes I practice scales like a stubborn beginner. Sometimes I listen to his recordings and imagine him, hunched over the keys, determined and slightly off-tempo.

Last week, I recorded my first piece in sixty years.

My hands are slower now. The notes aren’t perfect. But I labeled it carefully: “For Robert.”

I placed it on the shelf beside his.

For 63 years, he brought me flowers.

This year, from beyond, he brought me back to myself.