In Which
He wants to buy her guitar.
or
In which
Her guitar brings them together.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
In a forgotten corner of the city sits a little record shop, filled with dusty shelves, the scent of coffee, and the girl who keeps it alive. She's twenty-tw...
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🎙️
Headphones On -
₊˚⊹ ᰔ"So I put my headphones on (I put my headphones on) Listen to my favorite song (listen to my favorite song)"⋆˚꩜｡
⚡︎⚡︎⚡︎
Mornings always tasted like burnt coffee and dust.
I unlocked the shop at five-thirty, same as every day, the metal shutter screeching as I pulled it up. The scent of stale wood polish, old paper sleeves, and faint menthol cigarettes greeted me immediately, curling around my senses like a familiar song. The shop felt cold at this hour – the kind of cold that clung to your bones before the sun rose to warm the city concrete.
"Morning, Byeol," Dad said without looking up. He was crouched behind the counter, organizing the till. His hair stuck up at the back like a rooster's tail, and he wore the same faded navy work shirt he'd had since I was ten. Its collar was fraying, but he refused to throw it out.
"Morning," I mumbled back, kicking the door closed behind me. My boots echoed on the wooden floors as I walked to the register. I placed my worn black backpack under the desk, pulled my dark blue hair into a messy ponytail, and cracked my knuckles, staring at the quiet aisles lined with forgotten decades.
The store, Everblue Records, was older than me. Rows of dark oak shelves created narrow aisles lined with vinyls and CDs, each labelled meticulously in Dad's looping handwriting. Tiny paper signs stuck out like bookmarks – "Soul," "Motown," "British Punk," "70s Rock," "Classic R&B," "Disco/Funk," "Jazz."
The glass display cases by the window held old guitar picks, harmonicas, cigarette lighters from touring musicians, and limited-edition album covers. Dust floated in the early morning light that streamed through the slatted blinds. The fluorescent ceiling lights flickered once, twice, then buzzed into steady life.
Dad placed a steaming cup of black coffee in front of me. The styrofoam burned my palms, grounding me in the present.
"Shipment came in last night. Restock before opening."
I nodded silently and sipped my coffee, feeling the bitterness settle heavy on my tongue. It was too hot, but I drank it anyway.
He disappeared into the storage room while I flicked on the stereo behind the counter. It whirred softly before the opening chords of Ain't No Sunshine by Bill Withers hummed through the store. The bass line sank deep into the floorboards, vibrating up through my soles. I let it play loudly. No customers were here to complain about the volume yet.
I grabbed the box cutter from under the register and walked to the back storage. Stacks of cardboard boxes towered against the walls like silent guards. I pulled one down, dragging it across the floor with a dull scraping sound. Kneeling, I sliced it open, peeling back layers of plastic wrap to reveal the new arrivals. My chest fluttered as I flipped through them.
