You and Daryl had been sweeping this sector for the better part of two hours, sifting through the skeletal remains of what had once been called Main Street, looking for the kind of supplies that meant survival: medical kits, preserved food, and above all, silence.

The music store was lodged between a dusty laundromat and a boarded-up auto repair shop. It smelled of mildew, old paper, and a faint, sweet decay that probably clung to the upholstery of the vinyl booths scattered near the back. Daryl was checking the upper floor, his crossbow held ready, the string humming faintly as he moved.

You moved through the aisles, past shattered guitar necks and stacks of cassette tapes reduced to magnetic spaghetti. This was a frivolous stop, you knew, a waste of time in the hunt for batteries or medicine, but the lure of something whole was too strong.

And then you saw it.

Tucked beneath a display of warped sheet music was a hefty, dust-coated turntable. It looked improbable, almost immaculate among the wreckage. You used your sleeve to wipe it down, frowning at the layers of grime. The store had lost power years ago, but some of these older models ran on rechargeable batteries or could be cranked, and luck, for once, was on your side. You found the charging cable still connected to a small, heavy battery backup unit that, miraculously, held a charge.

Near the back counter, amongst the broken 45s, a single 33 LP lay face down, untouched by moisture or boot. A scratchy, hand-drawn label marked it simply: The Travelers - Mournful Blues. Perfect.

You flicked the switch, the player giving a disconcerting whine before the heavy platter began to turn. You carefully placed the needle.

The sound that filled the stagnant air was deep, rich, and utterly foreign to the world outside. A slide guitar, heavy with reverb, followed by a voice that sounded like it had been scraped across gravel—raw, weary, and dripping with loss. It was beautiful, and it was a terrible risk.

You didn’t shout for Daryl. You knew he’d panic if you broke the silence with anything but a warning. Instead, you located the stairwell that led up to the tiny office where he was checking the perimeter, and you waited until you heard his heavy boots approaching the landing.

When he reached the bottom step, Daryl froze. His eyes, usually scanning the periphery, narrowed on the source of the noise.

He looked like he was about to gut a walker with the sheer force of his disapproval.

"What in the hell," he growled, the music nearly swallowing his voice. He glanced toward the street-facing windows, his posture instantly hostile. "Turn that off. It’s a beacon."

"It’s beautiful," you countered, holding your ground near the player, placing your rifle carefully against a counter. “It’s just for a minute. Come here.”

He straightened, slowly, turning to face you. His eyes were narrowed, evaluating you with the same cautious intensity he used to judge a potential threat. Beneath the grime, the weariness that etched the corners of his mouth was clear.

“No,” he stated flatly. The single word was a refusal, a warning, and a display of profound discomfort, all rolled into one. He tightened the straps of his pack. “We ain’t got time for that trash.”