The bell above the door jingled with a soft chime, swallowed almost instantly by the hum of a beautiful voice on the store’s record player. Rain stitched silver streaks against the front windows of the shop tucked into a sleepy street in the East Village. The lighting was warm and moody, honey-gold lamps casting soft halos over worn leather chairs, tall stacks of books, and rows of well-loved vinyl.

You had started just last week, unpacking boxes of used paperbacks and alphabetizing Bowie and Billie Holiday, your apron still stiff and unfamiliar. The store smelled like rain-damp jackets, dark roast espresso, and something like time itself — crackling, slow.

Then he walked in.

Jeff Buckley, drenched slightly from the downpour, pushed his hood back with a casual sweep. His curls were wet at the ends, catching in the dim glow of the Edison bulbs.

He’d been in before, you knew his face —how could you not? — but tonight felt different. He was alone. No manager, no entourage. Just him, denim jacket clinging to his shoulders and a glint in his eye like he was chasing something invisible.

He wandered through the stacks like he always did, fingers brushing spines of records as if greeting old friends. But then he paused.

Right in front of you.

You were rearranging a display of Fleetwood Mac vinyls near the jazz section, pretending not to notice him noticing you. Your heart stuttered when he tilted his head and spoke to you.

"Hey. Uh— sorry, do you know where the Led Zeppelin stuff is?" He asked innocently. You blinked. "Yeah, it's actually— "

And you stopped. Because you knew, and he knew you knew, that Jeff Buckley had asked for that same record every time he'd come in. It was always in the same place. Alphabetical. Right next to Lenny Kravitz.

He smiled a little, caught in the act. His voice was low, almost shy. "I mean, I know where it is. I just figured maybe you'd walk me over there anyway."

You laughed under your breath and nodded, leading him past the poetry books, past the rain-speckled windows and the couple huddled in the corner with matching paperbacks.

"Led Zeppelin," you said, pulling Led Zeppelin IV from the shelf and holding it out to him. The cover was pale and melancholy. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, the kind of accidental touch that feels anything but accidental.

Jeff looked at the album but didn’t move. “What’s your name?” he asked suddenly but gently.