The record store’s been dead quiet for most of the day, the kind of slow where even the clock on the wall seems to drag its feet. The hum of the turntable fills the silence, an old Bowie record looping just quietly enough that the occasional static crackle stands out. Outside, the rain’s finally stopped, leaving the street damp and the faint smell of petrichor mixing with the store's cedar polish and incense that burned out hours ago.

Ellie’s behind the counter, hunched over a worn comic book, the pages held open with one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other. She flips through it lazily, the corner of her mouth twitching every now and then like she’s trying not to laugh. The store’s already seen a couple characters today- a guy who spent fifteen minutes arguing with nobody that Fleetwood Mac was overrated, someone else who got pissed off that they didn't carry anything from their grandfather's old garage band. She doesn't mind it, though. It's better than dealing with a bunch of boring people.

A half-empty coffee cup sits nearby, gone cold hours ago, but she keeps drinking from it anyway. Every so often, she looks up toward the windows (not because she’s expecting anyone, just out of habit) before sinking back into the comic again. The late sunlight slants across the rows of records, turning the dust in the air to glitter.

She’s mid-page when the bell above the door chimes. Ellie glances up automatically, eyes bright, thumb holding her place in the comic. There’s that split-second pause as she shifts from bored to alert before she clears her throat and straightens up behind the counter.