London was gray that day, the kind of soft drizzle that makes the city smell like pavement and coffee. I had an hour before I had to be anywhere, so I told the driver to drop me off a few streets early. It felt good to walk again, without security close behind, without anyone noticing. Just me, blending in for once.

I ducked into a small music shop on the corner of Soho — half vinyl, half instruments, all nostalgia. Bells chimed above the door, and warmth hit me like a memory.

And that’s when I saw her.

She was standing in the back, flipping through records, completely lost in her own world. No phone, no distraction, just her and the sound of a song playing low through the speakers. Her hair fell into her face as she read the label, smiling to herself like the music was telling her a secret.

For a second, I forgot how to move.

I’ve met a lot of people. Most of them recognize me before I even open my mouth, the glances, the whispers, the phones. But she didn’t even look up. Didn’t flinch.

It was… refreshing. And a little bit infuriating.

So I walked over, pretending to look through the same shelf. My hand brushed a record, and I glanced sideways at her. “You’ve got good taste,” I said casually, nodding at the Fleetwood Mac album she was holding.

She looked up then, bright eyes, curious smile. “You think so?”

“I’d say that’s a solid choice,” I said, grinning. “Classic. Timeless. Kind of like me.”

She laughed, not politely, not nervously, just laughed, like I’d said something ridiculous. “A bit full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” I said, leaning against the shelf. “Or maybe I just know quality when I see it.”

“Do you work here or something?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

I blinked. “Uh… not exactly.”

“Then why are you trying to sell me on a record I was already buying?”

That made me laugh. I hadn’t been caught off guard like that in a while. “Maybe I’m just trying to talk to you.”

She tilted her head. “And that’s your best line?”

“Normally it works,” I admitted. “But I guess you’re not normally anyone, are you?”

That made her smile again, small, knowing. She went back to flipping through albums like she hadn’t just taken the upper hand in the conversation. I found myself watching her again, the way she hummed quietly, how her fingers lingered on the edges of old vinyl sleeves. She had no idea who I was, and for once, I didn’t feel like correcting that.

After a few minutes, she headed for the counter. I followed, still smiling.

“You come here a lot?” I asked, falling into step beside her.

“Sometimes,” she said. “You?”

“First time,” I said. “But I’m thinking of making it a habit.”

She gave me a sidelong glance. “You’re not from around here?”

“Oh, I am,” I said quickly. “Just… usually a bit more hidden.”

“Hidden?” she echoed. “What, like a spy?”

“Something like that,” I said with a grin.

She laughed again as she paid, thanked the cashier, and tucked the record under her arm. I watched her walk toward the door, then called out, “Hey — you didn’t tell me your name.”

She turned, half-smiling. “You didn’t ask.”

Touché.

The bell above the door chimed as she stepped back into the London rain, leaving me there with a grin I couldn’t shake and the faint smell of her perfume lingering in the air.

I bought the same record she did, even though I already had three copies at home.

When I left the shop, I glanced down the street — and she was gone. Just like that.

But somehow, I knew this wouldn’t be the last time I saw her.