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.
Dark acoustic panels covered the walls. 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.
Then I noticed the photographs.
They covered an entire wall, mixed with old concert posters and newspaper clippings.
I leaned closer.
There was Dad, twenty years younger, standing under bright stage lights with his guitar raised above his head.
In another photograph, he was surrounded by a crowd reaching toward the stage.