A Promise Across Time [Completed]

Songs for 1970

May 1970

***FRIDA

I always knew my grandmother wouldn't live forever. But when her death came, it felt like the ground had been ripped from beneath me. The reality of it, the finality, was too much to bear. It had only been two years since Raven vanished—disappearing into thin air as if she had never existed, returning to her rightful place in the year 2024. I had been left to carry the weight of that strange goodbye, knowing that she had come from a future I could never fully understand.

As Raven had promised before she left, I met Benny last year. It felt almost surreal, like Raven had orchestrated our meeting long before it happened. And yet, despite our connection, Benny always reminded me of her in ways that tugged at my heart. There were moments when he sat at the piano, his fingers dancing across the keys, that I would close my eyes and hear Raven's music in his playing. They were so alike—the way they composed, the way they could pour emotion into each note as if they were speaking through their music. Sometimes, I would sit quietly, watching Benny play, and be transported back to those nights with Raven—when she was a mystery I was only beginning to unravel.

But now, two years after Raven's return to the future, I was facing the unimaginable loss of my grandmother, Arntine. I had known this day would come, and yet, nothing could have prepared me for it. The house felt emptier without her, the warmth of her presence now reduced to memories. But in a strange way, I took comfort in the fact that she had met Benny before she passed. Raven had spoken so highly of him—of his talent, his gifts—and I had often wondered if their meeting would validate the story of Raven's origin. And in a way, it did. Benny's talent was undeniable, his music a living testament to Raven's prophetic words. It confirmed what I had known all along but sometimes refused to believe: Raven was truly from the future.

After we buried Grandma, the weight of grief settled in. I was alone in her room, her belongings still scattered as if she had just stepped out for a moment. I could barely stand to look at her bed, so I lay down and hugged her pillow, breathing in the faint traces of her scent. It reminded me of the day Raven left, the hollow ache that came with her absence. But this pain was different. It was deeper, more consuming. I wept, the tears coming in waves, as if all the grief I had bottled up over the years was finally breaking free.

After what felt like an eternity, I wiped my eyes and sat up, my gaze falling on the drawer beside Grandma's bed. Something inside urged me to open it, a feeling I couldn't explain. When I pulled it open, there they were—sheets of music, carefully folded and tucked away. The handwriting was unmistakable, delicate but confident. It was Raven's.

I stared at the papers in disbelief, my fingers trembling as I unfolded the compositions. Each piece was carefully titled, the notes scrawled in Raven's familiar hand. My breath caught when I saw the note attached to the final page: For the Frida in 1970.

A chill ran down my spine. Raven had known. She had known that Grandma would die in 1970, that I would need something—some sign from her—to remind me that I wasn't alone in this grief. This was her way of reaching out to me across time, her voice echoing through these compositions.

I clutched the papers to my chest, tears spilling from my eyes once more. How could she have known? And yet, there it was—proof that Raven had foreseen this moment. She had left these songs for me, for this exact time in my life. It was her way of telling me that even though she was gone, even though time had separated us, she was still here. Still watching over me.