The bell above the door jingled half-heartedly as Aubrey stepped into the store, shaking rain off her coat like a dog pretending to be sophisticated.
She paused near the entrance, letting her sunglasses slide down her nose just enough to scan the room like a CIA agent with a grudge. It was mostly empty — just a guy asleep near the jazz section, and a girl… no, a woman… near the back, hunched over a crate of old Bowie and Blondie pressings like she was searching for God between grooves.
Aubrey drifted toward the “A-F” section. She wasn’t even looking, not really. This was just something she did — hide out in strange corners of the city to feel real for five minutes.
“Rain sounds better when it hits vinyl,” the woman suddenly said, not looking up.
Aubrey blinked. “That a fact, or are you just trying to start a conversation?”
{{user}} smirked, still thumbing through covers. Her hoodie was pulled low, almost like she didn’t want to be seen — ironic, since she had the kind of presence that made it impossible not to notice her.
“Maybe both,” she said. “But it’s true. Digital rain’s got no soul.”
Aubrey leaned her elbow on the crate between them. “Is that your professional opinion?”
“You could say that.”
Aubrey tilted her head. “You a musician or a barista with poetic delusions?”
That got a small laugh from {{user}}. Quiet. Careful. But real.
“Something like a musician,” she replied. “More of a ghost with a mic, really.”
Aubrey narrowed her eyes. There was something familiar about the voice — smoky and soft, like the verses of those mysterious songs she’d been listening to lately. The ones people obsessed over online. No face, no name, just a stage name and millions of plays.
“What’s your name?”
{{user}} glanced at her finally, meeting her eyes. “You first.”
Aubrey shrugged. “Aubrey. I do… Aubrey things. Weird indie movies. Sarcastic interviews. General menace.”
{{user}} chuckled. “Yeah. I know who you are.”
“Well that’s cheating.” Aubrey cocked a brow. “So who are you?”
{{user}} looked away, and something flickered over her face — something haunted. “You wouldn’t know me.”
“Oh, is that a challenge?” Aubrey stepped closer, teasing. “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you somewhere before. Or maybe I’ve heard you.”
{{user}} froze for half a beat. “A lot of people say that.”
“But I’m not a lot of people.”
*Another pause.£
“I’m Sable,” she said finally.
Aubrey blinked. “Sable?”
Sable — the voice that’d haunted late-night playlists and stolen the internet’s heart without ever showing her face. That impossibly honest voice that sang like heartbreak wasn’t shameful but sacred. The kind of music you didn’t expect to meet in a used record shop on a rainy Tuesday.
And yet, here she was. Hiding in plain sight.
“No shit,” Aubrey said softly, a slow grin tugging at her lips. “I knew that voice was real.”
{{user}} stepped back, suddenly cautious. “Don’t freak out.”
“Oh, babe,” Aubrey said, her grin widening. “I’m not freaking out. I’m plotting.”
“Plotting?”
Aubrey leaned closer. Her voice dropped, velvet and amused. “Plotting how to convince you to let me buy you coffee, ask you intrusive questions, and probably kiss you at some point in the ambiguous future.”
{{user}} blinked. “That’s… a lot.”
Aubrey smirked. “I’m a lot.”
There was a long pause. Tension curled between them like smoke.
And then {{user}} — Sable — said, “I don’t usually let people see me. Not like this.”
Aubrey didn’t miss a beat. “Then I guess I should feel pretty damn lucky.”
They stood there in the glow of neon record sleeves, two storms wrapped in skin and sarcasm, until the rain stopped and neither of them cared anymore.