He gestured around the studio.
“So I made a decision. I asked Frank to give you that box only after I was gone. Because I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything. Not forgiveness. Not gratitude. Not even a phone call.”
He drew an unsteady breath.
“When you get this place, it’ll be yours. You can make music, sell the equipment, turn it into something else. Whatever makes you happy. And I won’t be around to tell you you’re doing it wrong.”
For a moment, he stared into the camera.
Then someone entered the frame.
Frank.
He rested a hand on Dad’s shoulder.
“We’ve got his back, buddy.”
Two more men joined him. I recognized them from the pictures on the studio walls.
The bassist grinned.
“Besides, once you’re gone, we’re going to need a new guitarist.”
“And a singer,” the drummer added. “Preferably one who can actually hit the high notes.”
