𝘼𝙕𝙄𝙍𝘼𝙋𝙃𝘼𝙇𝙀

1980 year. London.
One sunny day, a plump, middle-aged librarian quietly walks into your music store and, with a saddened look, carefully places a vinyl record on your table. He smiles guiltily, hiding his large hands in the pockets of his beige coat.
“Oh, um... You see... It looks like it's a little scratched or something... Could you make a replacement?”