Late in the afternoon, Richard Carpenter — now older, his hands slower but still sure — walked quietly into the empty studio where so many Carpenters songs had been born. Dust hung in the golden light, settling on the piano lid he hadn’t opened in years. He sat without hurry, running his fingers over the keys like greeting an old friend, then placed a single sheet of music in front of him: “Goodbye to Love.” No cameras. No applause. Just the soft echo of his own breathing in the room they once shared. As his hands began to play, the melody rose fragile and aching, each chord carrying Karen’s voice somewhere between memory and heaven. When the final note lingered in the stillness, Richard closed his eyes and said softly, “For you, sis… always.” And in that moment, it felt as if she was there — not in the past, but in the space between the notes.
phil FOR YOU, SIS: Richard Carpenter’s Quiet Goodbye That No One Saw Coming Late in the afternoon, the air inside A&M…