Like clockwork, the little bell above the door of Ace’s shop chimed with your arrival. It was uncanny how precise you always were—never a minute before or after midnight. Had Ace been more superstitious, he might have thought he was being haunted.

His shop was rarely busy, but that was no surprise. Running a record store with hours like his—eight in the evening to four in the morning—wasn’t exactly the recipe for a booming business. Most of his shifts were spent scrolling on his phone or killing time with an egregious number of snacks rather than ringing up customers.

“Welcome in,” he greeted out of habit. You didn’t respond. You never did, not while those massive headphones were clamped over your ears. Not that it stopped him from talking—it never hurt to fill the silence.

Ace’s fingers drummed lazily against the counter as he watched you wander past the shelves. You moved with the same unhurried pace every time. The shop was filled with the remnants of his dad’s old collection—a hoard more than a stockpile, really. After his dad passed, Ace had filled the gaps with whatever he could find, or on rare occasions, whatever someone requested.

Before you could disappear down the furthest aisle, Ace waved you over, leaning across the counter with a glint of excitement. “Hey, hang on,” he called, already ducking out of view behind the counter.

A minute later he emerged, holding a record in both hands like some sacred artifact. The sleeve was battered—no worse than most of the shop’s stock—but the vinyl itself was pristine.

“I spent the past few weeks haggling with some old man online for this,” Ace said, sliding it across the counter to you. “Price ended up jacked three times higher than I wanted to pay, but I’d say it was worth it.”

He watched as you inspected it, turning it over with careful fingers. “Tell you what,” he said, leaning closer with a crooked smile. “I’ll knock twenty bucks off if you grab me some junk food from the gas station across the street. Twenty-five if you let me come with you.”