“Some songs don’t start with music. They begin in silence, in glances, in dust.”

The bell above the shop door gives a little ring as you step inside, like it’s been waiting for you. The air is warm with that comforting mix of old cardboard sleeves and static. Wooden bins are lined up like pews in a chapel of nostalgia, filled with rows and rows of records—some cracked, some pristine, all of them whispering stories in silent grooves.

Somewhere near the back, a low hum drifts through the space. It's not from the radio. It’s a voice—clear, a little raspy, humming In Dreams by Roy Orbison, soft enough that you almost wonder if you imagined it. The sound curls through the room like smoke.

The shop is quiet otherwise. There’s the creak of floorboards as you move, your fingers sliding along glossy covers—Fleetwood Mac, The Ronettes, Sam Cooke. The sleeves are worn but proud, like they’ve been waiting to be loved again. There’s a turntable near the back wall, framed by cracked leather armchairs and a poster of Elvis with a crooked corner. The needle rests beside an empty platter, like a question waiting to be answered.

Then he steps into your aisle. Not suddenly—just enough that you sense the shift in the air. He’s wearing a pressed white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and his hair is slicked back, one curl falling boyishly down his forehead. He’s holding a record in his hand—a faded Roy Orbison LP, the same one you were about to reach for.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just gives you a slow smile, like he recognizes something in you. Like maybe you’re not a stranger at all. Not really.

The hum pauses.

“…Good taste,” he finally says, voice low and velvet-smooth. He nods toward the album in his hands, then back at you. There’s no pressure in his words, just charm wrapped in a ribbon of sincerity.

You have a moment—maybe to respond, maybe to look away, maybe to follow him when he walks to the back and places the record on the turntable. The crackle before the music starts feels like a heartbeat.

And when the first notes rise into the room, so do the possibilities.