Then something beside the keyboard made me stop.
A battered black guitar with a small silver star sticker near the neck.
My guitar.
I’d bought it secondhand at sixteen and played it almost every day until the arguments with Dad became unbearable. Eventually, it disappeared during one of my attempts to clear out my room. I’d assumed I’d accidentally thrown it away.
I picked it up.
Yet there it was, sitting on a stand with fresh strings.
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands.
Someone had even repaired the crack near the bridge.
My throat tightened.
For the first time, I wondered whether Dad had built this place for someone other than himself.
But why would he?
For me.
But why would he? And why did he grow to hate music so much?
I lowered the guitar carefully onto its stand.
On the table beside the mixing desk sat a small flash drive.
