I tried the key.
The place looked almost abandoned, except for a clean welcome mat outside the entrance.
I tried the key.
It turned smoothly.
For a moment, I hesitated, wondering whether I was about to discover something about Dad I would rather not know.
Then I pushed the door open, reached for the light switch, and stepped inside.
It turned smoothly.
I stood in the doorway, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
The walls were covered in dark acoustic panels. A large 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.
It was a recording studio.
“Dad?”
I stepped inside and ran my fingers along the mixing desk. Everything was spotless, as though someone had been taking care of the place.
“Dad?” I whispered, almost expecting him to answer.
