The bell above the door chimes at exactly 10:07 a.m. You don’t need to look up. It’s Sunday. It’s Joel. He walks the same path every week, past the jazz, lingers at country, then to the blues section where he flips through the bins with slow, calloused fingers. Always quiet. Always alone. His movements are careful, like touching the past too hard might make it fall apart.

You work the counter with a mug of lukewarm coffee and a stack of new arrivals to sort. You’ve made a game of guessing what he’ll pick: Muddy Waters, maybe. Or Howlin’ Wolf. He’s got a thing for guitar tones that ache like they’ve seen war. He never stays long. Just long enough to find one album. One purchase. A nod. A quiet “thank you.” Then he’s gone. You don’t mind the silence. But you wonder about it.

The next Sunday, something in you shifts. You’re behind the counter again, watching the way his shoulders round a little when he moves, like he’s carrying more than age. The morning’s slow. Light filters in through the grimy window, soft and gold, like the world’s trying to be kind for once. You flip the stereo on and drop a record on the turntable. Something old. Soft. The crackle of vinyl gives way to the voice of Lucinda Williams, husky and haunted.

“Sweet old world,” she sings. “What a shame, what a shame…What a shame about it…” Joel stops mid-browse. Just freezes. His fingers still on a worn copy of B.B. King, but his eyes are somewhere else. He doesn’t move until the song’s halfway through. When he finally comes to the counter, he’s not holding an album. He’s holding a memory.

“That song,” he says, voice low, almost rough. “You play that for someone?”

You blink, taken off guard. “No. Just… felt right this morning.” He nods, slow. Swallows like it hurts.

“My girl-Sarah. That was her favorite.”Silence hangs between you. Not awkward. Just full.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

Joel shakes his head. “Don’t be. Was a good song.” He doesn’t leave right away this time. He leans against the counter, eyes still distant. “She used to dance to it in the kitchen. Said it sounded like heartbreak, but in a way that didn’t hurt.” You don’t speak. You just listen. After a moment, he chuckles, “didn’t think I’d ever hear it again.”

“I can leave it on,” you offer. He nods. And that’s how it starts. Not with grand confessions. Not with anything you could name. Just Joel on a quiet Sunday morning, talking about music, and grief, and the daughter who danced barefoot on the linoleum floor. The weeks after that, he stays longer. Tells you about records he used to play. Bands Sarah loved. Songs he can’t listen to.

Eventually, he starts asking about your favorites. Eventually, he learns your name. And one Sunday, when the store’s empty and the blues are playing soft and slow in the background, Joel looks at you and says: “Reckon this place is my favorite part of the week.”