The nursing home “Golden Meadows” was my second home. As a music therapist, I played piano for the residents every Thursday. Martha, 92, was always there. She sat in her wheelchair, eyes closed, while I played Chopin.
This Thursday was different. Martha wore a red dress instead of her usual blue robe. In her hand, she held a crumpled letter.
“Sarah,” she said with a trembling voice, “today is a special day. Seventy-five years ago, I had my last dance with my great love, Thomas. It was the day before he left for the war.”
She handed me the letter. It was from Thomas, dated March 15, 1950.
“Read it,” she asked.
“Dearest Martha, if you’re reading this, I’m long gone. But I’ve left something for you at the old dance studio on Oak Street. Under the third floorboard lies a box. Inside is our last dance preserved. I love you, forever, Thomas.”
Martha’s eyes filled with tears. “The studio is still there,” she whispered. “I never went. The memory was too painful.”
The next day, we drove there. The third floorboard was loose. Underneath lay a golden box. Inside: a record and another letter, this time addressed to me.
When we played the record, it was their song – “Moonlight Serenade.” Martha’s eyes lit up. Slowly, she stood from her wheelchair, something she hadn’t done in years. As the music played, she began to sway, lost in memories.
That’s when we noticed the letter’s contents: Thomas had arranged for the studio to be preserved, paying rent for 75 years, just so Martha could have one last dance in the place where they first met.
Martha passed away that night in her sleep, with a smile on her face. The nurses found the record playing softly in her room, and a photo of a young couple dancing, their love frozen in time.
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