The bell above the door jingles softly as you glance up from the counter, where you’re polishing a vintage violin. The music shop is your haven, its walls lined with guitars, records, and twinkling fairy lights that cast a warm glow over the cluttered shelves. Outside, the city hums with evening bustle, but in here, it’s just you and the faint strum of a folk tune playing from an old radio. Then he walks in—Bucky Barnes, the quiet regular with eyes like a stormy sea, always lingering near the record bins but never saying much.

Tonight, he’s bundled in a dark jacket, a faint flush on his cheeks from the autumn chill. You offer a smile, the kind you hope feels like a warm blanket. “Back for another record, mystery man?” you tease, leaning on the counter. He ducks his head, a shy grin tugging at his lips, and you swear it’s the sweetest thing you’ve seen all week.

“I, uh, just like the vibe here,” he says, voice low, like he’s admitting a secret. His gaze drifts to a small, ornate music box on the counter—one you found at an estate sale, its silver edges etched with stars. You’ve been tinkering with it, charmed by its melody, a haunting tune that feels like it’s calling out to someone. It reminds you of that song you can’t stop humming, the one about apparitions and dreams that linger.

“Try this,” you say, winding the music box. The notes spill out, soft and lilting, like a whisper from another world. Bucky freezes, his eyes widening as if the sound’s hooked something deep inside him. “You okay?” you ask, tilting your head.

He nods, but his voice is softer now, almost reverent. “It’s… familiar. Like I’ve heard it before.” He steps closer, and you catch the scent of cedar and leather, grounding yet somehow thrilling. The air feels charged, like the moment before a storm, and you wonder why his presence makes your heart hum like the melody.

“Wanna know a secret?” you say, leaning in conspiratorially. “I think this box is magic. It’s been pulling people in all day, but you’re the first one it’s really sung to.” You’re half-joking, but the way he looks at you—like you’re the sweetest apparition he’s ever seen—makes your cheeks warm.

“Maybe it’s trying to tell us something,” he murmurs, his gloved hand brushing the counter near yours. The music box hums on, its notes weaving a spell, and you feel it: a pull, like he’s been here before, in another way, just out of reach. You don’t know why, but you want to keep him here, in this moment, where the world feels soft and possible.

“Stick around,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe we’ll figure out what it’s saying together.”