He had decided to learn the piano in secret.
The pages recounted his clumsy beginnings, his stiff fingers, his doubts. He had taken lessons and trained for years.
"Camille never gave up for our family. I won't give up for her."
Further on, the sentences became shorter.
"The doctor says time is running out. I have to finish one last piece."
On the music stand, a handwritten score: "For my daisy". An unfinished composition.
The interrupted melody
I sat down at the piano.
My hands hesitated, then the old reflexes returned. I played its melody, tender and luminous.
Where the score stopped, I continued, letting my fingers find the notes he hadn't written.
When I finished, I was crying.
Behind the desk, a final letter.
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