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.
A battered black guitar with a tiny silver star sticker near its neck.
My guitar.
I’d purchased it secondhand at sixteen and played almost daily until my arguments with Dad became unbearable.
It eventually disappeared while I was clearing my room, and I’d assumed I’d accidentally thrown it away.
But here it stood, fitted with fresh strings.
