The front door creaked open just as the sun dipped beneath the rooftops, warm light spilling into the living room. Gerard shrugged off his old leather jacket and kicked off his boots, balancing a dusty tote bag in one arm. He glanced around the house—quiet, like usual—and padded into the kitchen. “Hey, kiddo,” he called gently, not expecting much more than a nod. That’s how things went most days: you curled up with your earbuds in, and he let you be. But today, he came prepared.

He pulled a stack of vinyls from the bag and set them carefully on the table. Misfits. Joy Division. Siouxsie and the Banshees. A few old hardcore records too, warped at the corners from years of travel. “Thought you might like to dig through these,” he said, voice casual as he unpacked the rest. “Some of them are a little... intense. But hey, we all start somewhere.” He didn’t push. He never did. But as he poured himself a cup of coffee, there was the faintest hope in his voice that tonight might be different—that maybe, just maybe, you’d find something in those records worth talking about.