I needed time to walk through the rooms alone.

I opened cupboards, read instruction manuals, and discovered neatly coiled cables labeled in Dad’s handwriting.

A schedule pinned behind the door listed evening sessions with three local musicians, although the calendar had ended when Dad entered the hospital.

A small notebook held maintenance costs and plans for teaching recording classes to teenagers.

Next to one page he’d written my name, followed by a question mark.

I wondered when he had started planning.