The delivery truck arrived just before noon, its rumbling interruption to their workday drawing both Ken and Toni to the front window. The driver struggled with a large, rectangular package, nearly dropping it as he navigated the three steps to their porch.

"That can't be the server components," Ken said, frowning. "They're not due until next week."

Toni's eyes widened with recognition. "It's not tech, sweetie. It's my keyboard."

Ken glanced at her in surprise. "You ordered a keyboard? When?"

"After our call with your mom last week," Toni replied, already heading for the door. "She mentioned missing her piano, remember? I thought we could bring music to her instead."

Outside, Toni signed for the package while Ken helped the driver maneuver it into their living room. The box was substantial—containing not a simple electronic keyboard but a digital piano with weighted keys and a proper stand.

"This is... not small," Ken observed as they surveyed the package occupying a significant portion of floor space.

"Full 88 keys, weighted action, genuine piano feel," Toni confirmed, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. "It can be disassembled for transport to Palm Springs, but still give your mom the experience of playing a real instrument."

Ken's expression softened as he understood her intent. "She's going to love this."

"I thought we could practice some duets before we visit," Toni explained, already opening the box. "Your guitar, my flute, and now piano for your mom. A proper Sweetieport Systems ensemble."

Assembling the digital piano became their afternoon project, client work temporarily set aside as they deciphered instructions and connected components. Samba supervised from the back of the couch, her tail twitching with apparent skepticism at this large new object invading her domain.

"Power supply, pedals, stand... I think that's everything," Ken said finally, stepping back to survey their work. The piano now stood against the living room wall, its sleek black finish gleaming in the afternoon light.

Toni sat on the bench, running her fingers lightly across the keys without pressing them. "It's been years since I played regularly," she admitted. "I might be a bit rusty."

"Only one way to find out," Ken encouraged, settling beside her on the bench. "Welcome to Musicport."

Toni smiled at the port-word, then placed her hands in position and began to play. The first notes of Beethoven's "Fur Elise" filled their living room, tentative at first, then gaining confidence as muscle memory returned. Ken watched her hands move across the keys, entranced by the fluid grace of her movements.

When she finished, there was a moment of perfect silence before Ken spoke.

"That doesn't sound rusty to me," he said softly. "That sounds like magic."

Toni ducked her head, pleased but embarrassed by his praise. "I missed a dozen notes."

"I didn't hear them," Ken replied honestly. "I just heard beauty."

He reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers. "I remember the first time I heard you play. At Mike and Katy's Christmas Pary. I was supposed to be taking photos at the party, but when you started, I nearly forgot what I was there for."

"You never told me that," Toni said, surprised.

"I was still just your friend then," Ken reminded her. "It seemed... complicated... to admit how your music affected me."

Toni leaned against his shoulder. "And now?"

"Now I can tell you that watching you play makes me fall in love with you all over again," Ken said simply.

Toni turned to kiss him, a gesture of gratitude for his honesty and appreciation. When they separated, Ken glanced at the piano with renewed interest.

"My mom is going to be thrilled," he said. "I don't think she's touched a piano since before her surgery."

"What pieces does she enjoy playing?" Toni asked, fingers idly finding a C-major chord.

"Mostly classical. Some Chopin, a little Mozart. And old show tunes," Ken added with a smile. "She has all the Rodgers and Hammerstein classics memorized."

"Perfect," Toni nodded. "I downloaded sheet music for some easy arrangements of Broadway classics. Even if her strength isn't back fully, she should be able to manage these."

Ken's expression turned thoughtful. "When did you start planning this?"

"The day after our hike," Toni admitted. "Perspectiveport reminded me that there are more ways to help your parents than just the LOVE BOT or handling practical matters. Music might be exactly what your mom needs right now—something that lets her feel like herself again, not just a patient."

"You're amazing," Ken said softly. "I was so focused on the technical solutions that I didn't even think about..."

"That's why we're a good team," Toni interrupted gently. "Your INTP tackles problems one way, my INFP approaches from another angle. Together we cover all the bases."

Ken nodded, then stood and crossed to where his guitar rested in its stand. "Let's try something together," he suggested, returning with the instrument. "Something we could play for Mom."

They spent the next hour experimenting with different pieces, discovering which arrangements worked best for piano and guitar. From classical compositions to gentler interpretations of modern songs, they gradually built a repertoire that flowed naturally between their instruments.

Later, when Toni sent Ken to retrieve her flute, they added a third voice to their impromptu ensemble. The combination was unexpectedly harmonious—Ken's rhythm guitar providing a steady foundation, the piano adding richness and complexity, and the flute soaring above with clear, pure notes.

"We should record this," Ken suggested after a particularly successful rendition of a Gershwin piece. "Send it to Mom and Dad as a preview."

"Great idea," Toni agreed. "Let me grab my phone."

They recorded several short pieces, the natural acoustics of their living room adding warmth to the sound. As they reviewed the recordings, Samba finally abandoned her supervisory perch to investigate this unusual activity, walking deliberately across the piano keys in a discordant interruption.

"Critics," Ken laughed, gently relocating the cat to his lap. "Everyone's a critic."

"I believe that was Samba's debut in Compositport," Toni observed, scratching the cat under her chin. "Very avant-garde, Your Majesty."

The cat's purr seemed to indicate satisfaction with this assessment.

That evening, after sending the recordings to Ken's parents (along with a video message explaining the keyboard surprise), they received an emotional phone call in response. Ken's mother's voice was thick with tears as she expressed her gratitude.

"I can't believe you're bringing a piano," she said. "I've missed music so much during this recovery. The house has been too quiet."

"Just ten more days," Ken reassured her. "Then we'll transform the place into a proper concert hall."

"And the LOVE BOT?" she asked. "Is that still coming too?"

"Absolutely," Ken confirmed. "It's been learning more about music therapy applications. It can now suggest pieces based on your energy level and mood."

"You two are determined to spoil me rotten," his mother laughed, sounding more like herself than she had in weeks.

After the call ended, Toni found Ken standing by the piano, absently playing a simple melody with one finger.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked, joining him.

"I was just thinking about how music has always been part of our relationship," he replied. "From the first time I heard you play at that party, through all music we listened to as friends, now to creating music together in our home."

"Another thread in our tapestry," Toni agreed, sitting beside him on the bench.

"Did I ever tell you about the mixtapes?" Ken asked, a slight flush coloring his cheeks.

"What mixtapes?" Toni asked, intrigued by his suddenly shy demeanor.

"During those sixteen years of friendship, I made mixtapes—well, playlists eventually—of songs that reminded me of you. I never sent them, of course."

"Ken Mendoza," Toni said with delight, "are you telling me you made secret pining playlists about me for years?"

"I wouldn't call it pining," Ken protested, though his deepening blush suggested otherwise. "Just... appreciation. Musical appreciation."

"I want to hear these immediately," Toni declared. "All of them."

"They're embarrassing," Ken groaned. "Very revealing in retrospect."

"Even better," Toni insisted. "We can listen while we pack for the trip."

Over the next week, music became the soundtrack to their preparations for the Palm Springs visit. Ken reluctantly shared his "Toni playlists," each one revealing something about how he'd seen her during their years of friendship. Some contained quiet, contemplative pieces that spoke to her thoughtful nature; others featured livelier compositions that captured her spontaneity and joy.

"This one's from when you were sailing in Mexico," he explained as a playlist filled with Latin guitar and ocean sounds played in the background. "I was worried about you being so far away, but also envious of your freedom."

Toni listened with growing amazement, hearing their history from Ken's perspective through his musical selections. "These are like audio love letters you never sent," she observed.

"I didn't recognize them as such at the time," Ken admitted. "But looking back, it seems pretty obvious."

Their own musical practice continued daily, the repertoire for Ken's mother growing more polished with each session. They discovered an unexpected joy in creating together, their individual musical voices blending into something greater than its parts.

The combination of piano and tech preparations meant their living room had become a curious hybrid space—musical instruments alongside computer components, sheet music mixed with coding printouts, Samba overseeing it all from various strategic perches.

"I think we need a bigger house," Ken joked one evening as he navigated the crowded space. "One with a dedicated music room and a separate tech area."

"And a specific Queenport section for Her Majesty?" Toni suggested, watching Samba delicately step across the piano keys for what had become her regular evening "composition."

"Naturally," Ken agreed. "With optimal sunbeams and strategic bird-watching windows."

Three days before their scheduled departure for Palm Springs, a package arrived from Ken's father—a collection of his mother's favorite sheet music, some of it dating back to her college years.

"Dad says she doesn't know he sent these," Ken explained as they leafed through the well-worn pages. "He thought it might be nice to surprise her with some of her favorites."

Toni examined the music with interest, noting the penciled fingerings and expression marks. "These tell a story," she said softly. "All her notes and interpretations over the years."

"She used to play every evening after dinner," Ken recalled, a distant look in his eyes. "Just for twenty minutes or so. Dad and I would clean the kitchen while she played. It was... comforting. A constant in our household."

Toni studied a particularly annotated Chopin nocturne. "Let me try this one," she suggested, moving to the piano. "You can tell me if I'm capturing her style at all."

She positioned the aged sheet music and began to play, following not just the printed notes but the handwritten notations that indicated Maria Mendoza's personal interpretation. Ken closed his eyes, listening intently as the familiar piece filled their living room.

When Toni finished, she turned to find Ken's eyes bright with emotion.

"That sounded just like her," he said softly. "It was like being ten years old again, sitting in our kitchen, listening to Mom play while Dad and I dried dishes."

Toni reached for his hand. "Music carries memory in a way nothing else can," she said. "That's why it's so powerful in healing."

Ken nodded, swallowing hard. "I knew the keyboard was a good idea, but I didn't realize how much it would mean... to all of us."

That evening, after dinner, they returned to the piano. This time Ken brought his guitar, and they worked through several of his mother's favorite pieces, adapting them for their instruments.

"This one," Ken said, indicating a Broadway classic. "Mom used to sing this while she played. She has a beautiful voice, though she'd never admit it."

Toni began the introduction, and to her surprise, Ken started to sing—quietly at first, then with growing confidence. His voice was warm and true, a pleasant baritone that paired beautifully with the piano.

When the song ended, Toni stared at him in astonishment. "You never told me you could sing!"

Ken looked slightly embarrassed. "I don't, usually. Just... around family."

The implication of her inclusion in that category hung in the air between them, a quiet affirmation of their bond.

"Well, welcome to Vocalport," Toni declared, breaking the moment with a smile. "I insist on more singing from now on."

The next day brought a flurry of final preparations for their trip. Ken focused on ensuring the LOVE BOT was fully functional and easy to install on his parents' devices, while Toni coordinated the transportation logistics for the digital piano.

"The airline confirmed it can go as oversized luggage," she reported after a lengthy phone call. "We'll just need to pack it properly in its travel case."

"And Samba's carrier is approved for the cabin," Ken added, checking items off their preparation list. "Though I suspect Her Majesty will register her complaints throughout the flight."

"Queenport goes mobile," Toni agreed, watching as Samba investigated the pet carrier they'd set out for her to become accustomed to. The cat's expression clearly conveyed her assessment of the accommodations as inadequate for her royal status.

That evening, their final one before departure, they decided to record one more piece for Ken's parents—a specially arranged medley of his mother's favorite songs, seamlessly transitioning from classical to Broadway to gentle jazz.

They performed it straight through without stopping, the hours of practice evident in their musical synchronicity. When the final notes faded, they sat in companionable silence, aware they had created something meaningful.

"That was Sweetieport in musical form," Toni said finally. "The way we complement each other, anticipate each other's movements, create something neither of us could alone."

Ken nodded, carefully setting his guitar aside. "It's strange," he reflected. "I've always thought of code as my creative outlet, my way of building something meaningful. But this..." He gestured to the piano and his guitar. "This feels like a different kind of creation. More direct, somehow."

"Code speaks to the mind," Toni suggested. "Music speaks to the heart. We need both."

"Balance," Ken agreed. "Like Perspectiveport."

They sent the recording to Ken's parents with a simple message: "A preview of coming attractions. See you tomorrow."

The response came quickly—a voice message from Ken's father, his voice thick with emotion: "Your mother listened to this three times in a row. She's already planning where to put the keyboard in the living room. Thank you both for this gift. It's better medicine than anything the doctors have prescribed."

Later, as they finished packing for their early morning departure, Ken found Toni in the living room, playing a soft, improvisational piece on the piano. It was nothing he recognized—just gentle, flowing notes that seemed to capture the quiet anticipation of their journey ahead.

He stood in the doorway, listening, watching her profile in the soft lamplight. Samba had claimed a spot at the end of the piano bench, her eyes half-closed in apparent appreciation of the music.

This, Ken thought, was the home they had built together—not just the physical space with its ocean view and comfortable furnishings, but the emotional landscape they had created. A place where technology and art coexisted, where work flowed into play, where friendship had deepened into love.

Sweetieport was not just their company name or their private language. It was this...this moment, this feeling, this certainty that whatever challenges awaited in Palm Springs, they would face them together, with both practical solutions and the healing power of music.

Toni looked up then, noticing him in the doorway. "Just saying goodbye to the piano for a few weeks," she explained with a small smile.

"I was thinking," Ken said, crossing to sit beside her on the bench, careful not to disturb Samba. "About all the different ways we communicate."

Toni's hands stilled on the keys. "Oh?"

"Words, obviously. And our port-language," Ken continued. "But also code. Music. Even silence."

He placed his hand over hers on the keyboard. "I'm grateful for all of them. For all the ways we've learned to understand each other."

Toni turned her hand to intertwine their fingers. "Me too," she said simply. Then, with a glance at their furry companion: "Though I think we still need some work on our cat communication skills. I have no idea what Her Majesty is saying half the time."

Ken laughed, the moment of solemnity broken. "I'm pretty sure it's either 'feed me' or 'worship me.' Not much middle ground with Samba."

Samba opened one eye at the sound of her name, then deliberately closed it again, the picture of feline indifference.

As they finished their preparations and finally headed to bed, Ken found himself mentally reviewing their journey together—from friendship to love, from separate lives to shared purpose. Music had been there throughout, he realized. A constant undercurrent to their story.

Tomorrow they would bring that music to his parents, along with their technical solutions and their practical help. It seemed fitting somehow—an offering that represented all aspects of their partnership, all the ways they had learned to care for each other and those they loved.

"Goodnight, sweetie," Toni murmured as they settled into bed, Samba claiming her usual spot at their feet.

"Welcome to Dreamport," Ken replied, their traditional exchange the final notes of the day's composition.