That evening, Dad’s best friend, Frank, knocked on my door. He carried a taped cardboard box.
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“Your dad left this with me. He wanted you to open it after he was gone.”
I laughed bitterly. “Did he save all the rent money I paid him?”
“Open it first,” Frank said quietly.
Inside lay Dad’s old leather vest, guitar picks, backstage passes, and photographs of him performing with his band. One picture showed Mom smiling beside him as he played.
Memories flooded back, and I broke down crying.
Then I found a key with an unfamiliar address attached.
Curious, I drove there. The key opened a building on the edge of town. Inside was a fully equipped recording studio, with microphones, guitars, amplifiers, and a professional mixing desk.
The walls were covered with concert posters and photographs of Dad performing before cheering crowds.
Then I spotted something familiar: my old black guitar, the one I thought I’d lost years ago. Its cracked bridge had been repaired, and it had fresh strings.
