I approached the instruments.
Electric guitars, a keyboard, and professional recording equipment filled the room. I recognized an audio interface that once cost more than three months of my wages.
Then I spotted something beside the keyboard.
A battered black guitar with a tiny silver star sticker near its neck.
My guitar.
I’d purchased it secondhand at sixteen and played almost daily until my arguments with Dad became unbearable.
It eventually disappeared while I was clearing my room, and I’d assumed I’d accidentally thrown it away.
But here it stood, fitted with fresh strings.
I picked it up and examined it.
Someone had even repaired the crack near the bridge.
My throat tightened.
For the first time, I wondered whether Dad had built this
studio for someone other than himself.
For me.
But why? And why had he seemed to hate music?
I carefully returned the guitar to its stand.
