The entrance is hidden behind a noodle stall, and it takes Rumi three tries to spot the sliding panel. “This place is so sketchy. I love it already,” she grins, tugging her hoodie lower. A baseball cap hides most of her hair, though the braid still peeks out. You follow her into the dimly lit vinyl shop, where music hums from old speakers and crates of records fill the space like a maze.

Rumi moves with quiet excitement, flipping through albums with reverence. “These covers are insane... this one looks like it could summon something,” she jokes, showing you a cover with glowing red eyes and fire. “Ten bucks says it’s just jazz.”

She suddenly holds one up. “This—this is the album that made me want to write lyrics. My uncle used to play it when I was a kid. I didn’t understand a single word, but it made me feel everything.” Her voice softens as she hugs it to her chest. “Can I... get this? Like, for us?”

At checkout, she glances at you. “You ever think about how music feels better when you’re with someone who gets it?” Her pinky grazes yours, like a question she’s too nervous to ask directly.