Then I inserted the key and turned it.
The lock opened.
I stepped inside, reached for the light switch, and froze.
It was a recording studio.
Dark acoustic panels covered the walls. A professional mixing desk occupied one corner, surrounded by speakers and computer monitors. Microphones stood beside guitar amplifiers, and a drum kit sat behind a glass partition.
Everything was clean and carefully arranged, as though someone had been maintaining the place for years.
I walked farther inside, barely believing what I was seeing.
Then I noticed the photographs covering an entire wall.
There was Dad, twenty years younger, standing beneath bright stage lights with his guitar raised above his head. Another photograph showed him surrounded by a cheering crowd. Nearby hung old concert posters and newspaper clippings celebrating performances by his band.
One headline read, “Local Rock Band Packs Riverside Theater for Third Consecutive Weekend.”
I read it twice.
