I circled the building, looking for clues. There was no sign, no parked vehicles, and nothing visible through the windows.
It seemed abandoned except for a clean welcome mat near the entrance.
I inserted the key. It turned easily.
I hesitated, afraid I might uncover something about Dad I’d rather never know.
Then I opened the door, switched on the lights, and stepped inside.
I froze, struggling to understand what stood before me.
Dark acoustic panels lined the walls. A large mixing desk occupied one corner, surrounded by speakers and computer monitors. Microphones stood near guitar amplifiers, while a drum kit sat behind a glass partition.
It was a recording studio.
I walked farther in, brushing my fingers over the mixing desk. Everything was spotless, as though someone maintained it regularly.
“Dad?” I whispered, almost expecting an answer.
Then I noticed a wall covered with photographs, concert posters, and newspaper clippings.
One picture showed Dad twenty years younger, holding his guitar high beneath bright stage lights.
Another captured a crowd reaching toward the stage.
