The instrument was inside its worn black case, tucked behind an old vacuum cleaner and a cardboard box of Christmas decorations.

I opened the case carefully.

The guitar smelled faintly of wood polish and the leather strap Dad used to wear across his shoulder.

I touched the strings.

They were dusty.

I don’t know why that hurt so much, but it did.

I sat on the hallway floor with the case open in front of me until Dad came home.

“What are you doing?” he asked.