The video said a few years.

Receipts in a filing cabinet showed he’d rented the warehouse shortly after I turned twenty.

Before that he and Frank had repaired the building slowly, one wall at a time.

My father had spent evenings here when I’d assumed he was repairing lawnmowers, building a place he could not find the courage to invite me into.

I found an invoice for the repair of my old guitar.

Under the description was a note from the technician: bridge reset, neck adjusted, scratches preserved at owner’s request.