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.
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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.
Beside the mixing desk lay a flash drive labeled in Dad’s handwriting: “Our Band.”
I plugged it into a computer.
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The video began with footage of Dad as a young musician, laughing with his bandmates and playing onstage. He was energetic and funny, nothing like the quiet man I’d grown up with.
Then the screen went dark.
A moment later, Dad appeared, looking frail from cancer.
“Hey, son,” he said.
