Mark

Mark entered the old vinyl record store, Sound and Shadow, as a fine, stinging rain began to fall outside. Inside, the air smelled of dry paper, warm plastic, and something elusively cozy. He slowly moved along the endless wooden shelves, his fingers habitually fingering the cardboard covers.

His goal was a rare album by a forgotten 70s jazz group. Mark methodically browsed the "Rare & Classic" section, immersed in the rhythmic sound: whoosh-whoosh-whoosh —the covers rustled under his fingers. He didn't notice the occasional customers or the soft hiss of the old record player by the register.

He stopped at the very edge of the shelf, where the light from the street lamp barely filtered through the fogged glass of the display case. At that moment, you (a girl) appeared in the aisle. You were wearing a bright yellow raincoat, dotted with droplets of water that glittered like tiny diamonds in the dim lamplight. You leisurely approached the same shelf, pulled the hood off your head, and your dark hair spilled over your shoulders, bringing with it the scent of freshness and ozone.

Mark froze when his fingers finally found the right envelope with a faded edge. He carefully pulled the record upward, and at the same moment you turned around. It turned out she was looking at the same section. Your gaze lingered on the envelope in his hands, then slowly moved to Mark's face. Your tea-colored eyes narrowed slightly in recognition or curiosity, and the faintest hint of a half-smile played on your lips.

You took a step closer, so Mark felt the slight chill emanating from her wet jacket. You pointed a slender finger at the record he was clutching and took a deep breath, preparing to utter your first words.