For 63 years, my husband never missed Valentine’s Day. Not once.

 For 63 years, my husband never missed Valentine’s Day. Not once.

After he died, I expected silence.

Instead, roses appeared at my door—along with a key to an apartment that held his secret.

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

Robert proposed to me on Valentine’s Day in 1962. We were in college. He cooked spaghetti with jarred sauce in the dorm’s tiny shared kitchen and burned the garlic bread on one side. He handed me a small bouquet of roses wrapped in newspaper and a silver ring that had cost him two weeks of dishwashing wages.

From that moment on, we were never apart.

Every single Valentine’s Day after that, he brought me flowers.

When we were broke and living in our first apartment with mismatched furniture and a leaky faucet, it was wildflowers. When he got promoted, it was long-stemmed roses. The year we lost our second baby, he brought me daisies.

He held me and said, “Even in the hard years, I’m here, my love.”

The flowers weren’t just romance. They were proof that Robert always came back.

Through arguments about money. Through sleepless nights with sick children. Through the year my mother died and I couldn’t get out of bed.

He always came back with flowers.

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Robert died in the fall. A heart attack. The doctor said he didn’t suffer.

But I did.

The house felt too quiet without him. His slippers still sat by the bed. His coffee mug still hung on the hook in the kitchen. I kept setting out two cups of tea in the morning before remembering there was only one of us left.

On Valentine’s Day—the first in 63 years without him—I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

Then came a knock at the door.

No one was there. Just a bouquet of roses on the doormat and an envelope.

My hands trembled as I picked them up.

Inside the envelope was a letter in Robert’s handwriting. And a key.

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

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

Hidden from me?

My mind raced. The business trips. The late nights. A phone call he once took outside in the rain.

Had there been someone else?

I called a taxi.

An hour later, I stood in front of an old brick building with a green door. I unlocked it and stepped inside.

The smell hit me first—polished wood. Old paper.

Sheet music.

In the center of the room stood an upright piano. Dark, beautiful, gleaming softly in the light. The walls were lined with shelves of sheet music, recordings, and books on music theory.

On the piano bench lay a piece: “Clair de Lune.”

My favorite.

I had told Robert that once, decades ago, when I still played.

Next to it: “Moonlight Sonata.” Another favorite.

On a small table were recordings labeled:

“For Daisy – December 2018.”

“For Daisy – March 2020.”

Dozens of them.

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

“Diagnosis: severe heart condition. Prognosis: limited time.”

He had known.

There was also a contract with the building caretaker—instructions to deliver the flowers and envelope to me on the first Valentine’s Day after his death.

He had planned this.

Then I found a journal.

The first entry was from 25 years ago:

“Today, Daisy mentioned her old piano. She said she used to dream of being a pianist, but life had other plans. She laughed, but I saw the sadness in her eyes.”

I remembered that day. I’d found my old sheet music in a box in the garage. Smiled. Put it away.

“I’ve decided to learn piano,” he wrote. “I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family.”

I read about his lessons.

“Signed up for piano lessons today. The instructor looked skeptical when I told her I’m a complete beginner.”

“Today I tried to play a simple scale and my fingers felt like they belonged to someone else.”

“I’m not giving up. Daisy never gave up on me.”

Years later:

“Today I played ‘Clair de Lune’ all the way through. It wasn’t perfect, but it was recognizable. I recorded it for her.”

Near the end, the entries grew shorter.

“The doctor says my heart is giving out. I don’t have much time.”

“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.”

The final entry, a week before he died:

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

On the music stand sat handwritten sheet music titled:

“For My Daisy.”

It stopped halfway down the second page.

He had run out of time.

I sat at the piano bench. My fingers hovered over the keys.

At first, they didn’t remember.

Then they did.

Muscle memory from six decades ago returned slowly. I played the melody Robert had written. It was tender. Loving. Full of longing.

When I reached the blank space where the music stopped, I paused.

Then I continued.

I let my hands find the notes he hadn’t had time to write. I finished the melody. Added harmonies. Resolved it the way he would have wanted.

When the final chord faded, I sat there with tears streaming down my face.

Behind the music stand was a small envelope.

“My darling Daisy,

I wanted to give you something you couldn’t refuse. Something 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.

I loved you when you were 20 and when you were 80. I’ll love you forever.

Always yours, Robert.”

I folded the letter and placed it in my pocket.

I visit the studio twice a week now. Sometimes I play. Sometimes I listen to his recordings.

Last week, I recorded my first piece in 60 years.

I labeled it:

“For Robert.”

And I placed it on the shelf beside all of his.

For 63 years, he gave me flowers.

And from beyond, he gave me back the dream I’d forgotten I had.

In every note I play, we are together again.