The record store was almost empty, its silence broken only by the occasional soft crackle of a jazz record playing overhead and the distant hum of a turntable needle. Afternoon light filtered through the dusty front windows, giving everything a sleepy golden glow. Rows of vinyl stood like sentinels, and the scent of old cardboard sleeves and aged wood filled the air.

You moved quietly, your steps slow, deliberate. A man alone in the jazz section, your fingers drifted along the spines of albums—Davis, Holiday, Monk. You weren’t looking for anything specific. Maybe that was the point.

She stood a few rows down, her figure partly obscured by one of the shelves. Laufey. Unrecognised.

She wore a soft cream sweater tucked into high-waisted black trousers, a muted plaid coat draped over one arm. Her long dark hair fell in a gentle wave over one shoulder, and her eyes—deep, almond-shaped, curious—flicked back and forth as she browsed, a subtle frown of concentration on her face. There was an air of timelessness about her, like she had stepped out of a dream or a 1960s photograph, yet didn’t seem out of place at all.

There was a delicate grace in the way she moved, fingers tracing vinyl covers with intention, like each one had a story to tell. No phone, no distractions. Just her and the music. A quiet, thoughtful presence that didn’t ask for attention but effortlessly commanded it.

You reached for the same vinyl.

It was Chet Baker Sings, worn cover slightly frayed at the edges. Your hands touched first—warm skin brushing against warm skin, not roughly but with the kind of intimacy that only happens when two people are too focused to notice how close they’ve become. Her fingers paused, hovering lightly on the cover.

She looked up.

You did too.

And for a second, neither of you moved.

Her expression didn’t change immediately—just the slightest widening of her eyes, the barest lift in her brows. But there was something in it, something quiet and electric. She tilted her head, almost imperceptibly, studying you not like you were a stranger, but like she was trying to place you in a song she hadn’t written yet.