There was no note anywhere in the box.
I grabbed my jacket and car keys.
The address led to the edge of town, beyond warehouses and an abandoned gas station.
Despite living here all my life, I couldn’t recall visiting this area.
I checked the tag again. The address matched.
“What were you doing out here, Dad?” I whispered.
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.
I examined a newspaper clipping.
“Local Rock Band Packs Riverside Theater for Third Consecutive Weekend.”
I read it twice.
My father had performed before packed audiences. People had paid to watch him.
Yet he’d never told me.
“Why did you hide all this?” I murmured.
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.
