He did keep a secret, but not the one I feared. In that small apartment, I found shelves of music, a piano, recordings with my name on them, and decades of journal entries written in his careful hand. He had spent twenty-five years learning, practicing, and recording pieces he knew I loved, quietly building a sanctuary meant only for me. When he learned his heart was failing, he arranged for the roses and the key to reach me on the first Valentine’s Day I would spend alone.
