The scent of stale coffee and sawdust clung to Hector Castillo, the veteran stage manager. His face, etched with lines from years under studio lights, held a weary resignation.
“Your dad was a good man, Leo,” Hector said, his gruff voice softer than usual. “Didn’t deserve what happened.”
We walked through the back corridors, away from the glitz of the main sets. I had sought him out, desperate for someone who knew my father outside of studio politics.
“I don’t understand any of this, Hector,” I admitted. “Julian. My dad’s estate. It’s all a mess.”
Hector stopped at a heavy metal door, its paint peeling. “Your dad worked this soundstage for fifteen years. Contract writer. He was proud of the work.”
He pushed the door open to reveal a cavernous storage room, crammed with old set pieces, forgotten props, and disused lighting rigs. Dust motes danced in the single beam of sunlight filtering through a grimy window.
“He used to keep everything here,” Hector mused, gesturing vaguely at the chaotic piles. “Said it was safer than his office. People always going through his stuff.”
My gaze swept across the jumbled relics of past productions: a giant cardboard castle, a neon diner sign, a taxicab with no wheels. It was a graveyard of forgotten dreams.
Hector began rummaging through a stack of crates marked with faded show titles. He grunted, pulling out a small, heavy box.
“Ah, here we go,” he said, blowing dust off the lid. “The ‘Starlight Kids’ box.” That was the name of my father’s old series. Mine and Julian’s first show together.
He lifted a few old, crumpled scripts, then reached further down. His fingers brushed against something solid. He pulled it out, revealing a faded blue leather script binder. Its edges were worn smooth, taped in places where the seams had split.
“He left this behind,” Hector said, his voice quiet. “During his final week of shooting. I was going to give it back, but… things happened so fast.”
He handed it to me. The leather was cool and smooth beneath my fingers. It smelled faintly of my father’s old cologne and wood polish. A tangible link to a past that suddenly felt very present.
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