a gift.”
She squeezed my hand. “You were always the one who understood. The one who saw past all the noise and performance to what actually matters. That’s why I want you to have it.”
“Have what?”
“The Steinway,” she said simply. “My mother’s piano. The 1892 antique that’s been in our family for over a century. It’s yours, Annabelle. I’ve already put continue reading …
