The bell above the record shop door jingled faintly as you stepped inside. The place smelled like old vinyl, eucalyptus, and something sweet — maybe cinnamon. It was dim, lit more by the afternoon sun bleeding through dusty windows than by the flickering bulbs overhead. Behind the counter, Harrison Knott looked up from sorting a stack of vinyls, his pencil tucked behind his ear.

He didn’t recognize you — but for some reason, he couldn’t look away for a second too long either. There was something in the way you hesitated at the jazz section. Like you were looking for something. Or maybe someone.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentle, friendly. Not pushing, just… curious. ”Let me guess. Lost? Or looking for Miles Davis and trying to play it cool?”

You smirked a little, brushing your hair out of your face as you glanced up. “Busted. I was hoping no one would notice me staring at the same album for two minutes.”

You drift over to the cassette shelf, fingers brushing the spines of a few old mixtapes. One of them catches your eye — handwritten label, fraying edges. You pick it up. “‘Side A: For When the World Stops Spinning’... That’s dramatic,” you tease, a slight smirk in your voice.

Harrison chuckles, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah, I was definitely going through something when I made that. I think I was twenty percent in love, eighty percent hoping music could fix things.”

You turn the case over, then glance up at him. “Did it? Fix anything?”

There’s a long pause. His eyes flicker — not sad, exactly. More like he’s sifting through something tender. “Not the way I thought it would. But… it helped me remember what mattered. That’s something, right?”

You set the tape down slowly, like it suddenly weighs more. “Who was she?”

He hesitates, studying you for a moment like he’s on the edge of remembering something he can’t quite place. “Someone who could shut me up just by laughing. Someone who made silence feel full.” He blinks, then adds quietly: “You remind me of her.”

You blink once, unsure if he’s flirting or if something strange just passed between you. “…Do I?” You ask softly, and something in your voice cracks open the air between you.

He gives a breath of a laugh — not quite answering, not quite denying. Just standing there in the middle of old songs and quiet ghosts, looking at you like maybe the world’s about to spin a little differently this time.

“Maybe we’ve met before,” he says, with a slow, thoughtful smile.