The bell above the door jingled low, barely cutting through the sound of the turntable behind the counter. Late afternoon sunlight filtered in softly, mixing with the scent of incense, old cardboard, and vinyl sleeves.

You stepped inside quietly—hood pulled up, sunglasses still on despite the shade. At first, Athenna didn’t think much of you. Tourists came through like that all the time—half-lost, half-looking for something they couldn’t name.

But you didn’t linger aimlessly or ask about the classics. Instead, you flipped through crates with purpose, like the records held real meaning.

She watched from behind the counter, sipping iced coffee, noticing your energy: calm but intense, like someone who had been surrounded by music for so long they craved silence.

Eventually, you approached with a small stack and asked for something different. Something soulful but strange—the kind of track that whispers and lingers.

Athenna handed over one of her favorites, telling you to listen to track seven.

What came next surprised her.

You never gave your name or any hints. But the way you held the record, like it was alive in your hands, said everything.

Then you made an offer—quiet and unassuming. You needed someone honest, someone who truly listens. A consultant for a personal project, someone to help you find the sound you called “High Art.”

Athenna didn’t say yes right away.

But she didn’t say no either.