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.
