My father was found dead at the beach with psychotropic medication among his things. Despite suicide being a possibility, my mother -a psychiatrist- deemed performing an autopsy unnecessary. I was eight years old. Thirty years later, equipped with a box filled with his belongings, I begin piecing his life together. I discover a one-of-a-kind musician and a music therapist of disabled teenagers, but nothing is certain in my quest, which is always shrouded in the fog of mental illness, overmedication, and my mother’s questioning every one of my findings.