Strings Attached ➤ Jay

|| Static and Silence

Fleetwood Mac's Rumours reissue.
Miles Davis' Kind of Blue, original mono remaster.
Joni Mitchell's Blue anniversary edition.
David Bowie's Hunky Dory, still sealed.
The Temptations' Anthology, box set.
Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti, mint condition.

I inhaled deeply, letting the smell of ink and fresh vinyl wash over me. There was nothing quite like it. No perfume, no cologne, no clean laundry smell could match the comfort of a fresh record.

I spent the next hour silently restocking, humming along under my breath. My voice sounded louder than usual in the empty store, vibrating against the records and wood and metal. As I shelved each album, my fingertips brushed the edges gently, reverent. These weren't just plastic discs. They were entire worlds. Stories pressed into grooves, waiting for someone to spin them back to life.

My eyes drifted to the glass cabinet near the jazz section. There it was. My guitar.

A navy blue Fender Stratocaster, silver hardware gleaming under the flickering ceiling lights. My initials – EB – were engraved on the base, small and subtle. On the pickguard was a signature in thin, faded black Sharpie: Yuki Kondo. My idol.

The best blues guitarist of his generation. Dad had saved up for nearly a year to buy it for me, secretly finding a way to get it customized and signed for my twentieth birthday. When he gave it to me, his hands shook with excitement. I remember staring at him in shock, feeling tears burn behind my eyes, but I swallowed them back until I was alone in my room that night, hugging it to my chest like a lifeline.

He insisted it be displayed in the store. "Inspires customers to buy their own," he'd said with a grin. But I knew the truth. He wanted to show it off. His daughter's guitar. Her pride.

I glanced around. Dad was still in the back. Mr. Han from the convenience store next door hadn't come in yet. The streets outside were empty except for a lone stray cat rubbing against the shop window.

Quietly, I unlocked the glass cabinet and slipped the guitar out. Its weight settled into my arms instantly, grounding me. I plugged it into the small practice amp by the stool and twisted the knobs until the static faded into silence.

My fingers hovered over the frets. I closed my eyes and began to play.

Soft at first, just scales to warm up. Then a blues riff I'd been working on for weeks. The notes bent under my fingertips, vibrating deep into the hollow of my chest. I let my mind go blank, letting my hands guide me. Each note melted into the next, like smoke curling into darkness. The world disappeared – no flickering lights, no coffee taste, no aching knees from crouching on the floor. Just me and the guitar. The only place where silence didn't scare me.

I played until my fingers burned, calluses pressed deep against the strings. When I stopped, the sudden silence felt deafening. I set the guitar back into its velvet cradle inside the cabinet and locked it carefully, brushing my thumb over the engraved EB one last time.

By seven-thirty, Mr. Han shuffled in, wearing his faded grey cardigan and brown trousers. His hair was snow white, combed neatly back. He smiled at me with kind eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses.

"Good morning, Eunbyeol," he greeted in his gravelly voice.

"Morning, Mr. Han," I replied, my voice hoarse from lack of use. "The new classical records came in. Top left shelf."

He grinned, bowing slightly before disappearing into aisle six, humming softly under his breath. I watched him go, my chest aching with a quiet fondness. He'd been coming here since I was six years old, when I used to sit behind the counter on a stack of milk crates, drawing on receipt paper while Dad worked.

When the sun finally rose fully, golden light poured through the dusty windows, illuminating particles of floating dust like tiny constellations. The city outside stirred awake, buses roaring down the street, office workers rushing past with coffee cups and briefcases, neon signs flickering off as dawn replaced artificial light.

I sat behind the counter, elbow resting on the wood, chin propped in my palm. I flipped open my battered leather notebook to a blank page. Black pen in hand, I wrote:

"If I died here, I think I'd be okay with it."

Not in a sad way. Just... accepting. This store was my life. My music, my roots, my legacy. People my age talked about traveling the world, living in big cities, chasing high-rise dreams and open skies. But my world was here, between these shelves lined with lost voices and timeless echoes. Between these strings and chords and trembling notes.

Here, I wasn't just existing. I was living. Even if no one else saw it that way.

I closed my notebook and sipped the now-cold coffee, staring at my reflection in the glass display case. Dark blue hair framing my pale face. Sharp black eyeliner smudged slightly under my eyes. Silver guitar pick necklace glinting softly against my collarbone. Petite frame curled up behind a counter in an old record shop that smelled like a thousand songs trapped in time.

And for now, that was enough.

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A/N: ITS FINALLY HERE SILLYBILLYS YAYYYYY