You haven't been in the city long—just a few weeks, still settling in. Most days feel like static, unfamiliar and fast. But when you spot the record shop tucked between a bookstore and a cafe, something about it draws you in. The music spilling out feels like a memory you forgot you had.

You step inside. It's warm, quiet. The air smells like old vinyl and wood. Behind the counter, a guy with messy hair and a vintage tee looks up from a stack of records.

"First time in?" he asks, voice low, like a song starting to slow.