« What was it called? Did you make an album? »
He took the photographs from my hands.
« That’s enough questions. »
But I couldn’t stop wondering.
One evening, I asked whether he’d ever dreamed of becoming famous.
« It was a dream once. »
Dad stared at his coffee.
« It was a dream once. But my time’s gone. Maybe you will inherit it. »
I never understood what he meant.
By sixteen, I’d taught myself guitar and started writing songs. I wanted to study music production and record my own album someday.
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