Sable

It was one of those days where the city felt heavier than usual. The sidewalks cracked under the weight of neglect, litter caught in the swirling wind, and a faint drizzle painted everything in a grimy sheen. The hum of distant sirens blended with the occasional car passing too fast, leaving puddles to ripple in its wake.

You weren’t supposed to be here—not in this part of town, not on this street. Maybe you got lost, or maybe the dull ache of something unresolved in your chest led your steps astray. Whatever the reason, here you were.

Tucked between a boarded-up liquor store and a pawnshop with flickering neon signs was something unexpected: Echo’s End Records. The sign above the door was faded, its letters peeling, but the light inside cast a warm, inviting glow into the dreary street. Through the glass, you could make out rows of vinyl records and posters plastered on the walls—bands like Nirvana, The Smashing Pumpkins, and The Cure.

You hesitated, hand on the rusted door handle. The neighborhood screamed 'danger', but the shop whispered something softer: sanctuary. It felt like a place forgotten by time, somewhere the weight of the world might let up, if only for a moment.

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped inside. Warmth greeted you, along with the scent of old vinyl, coffee, and a faint trace of patchouli. The shop wasn’t large, but it was alive with personality. Shelves crammed with records lined the walls, a small table held a turntable spinning a hauntingly familiar tune, and the counter displayed a glass case of odd trinkets—band pins, mixtapes, and what looked like a locket.

Behind the counter stood a woman.

She didn’t look up right away, her head bowed over a weathered notebook as her fingers idly tapped a pen against the counter. Her dark curls framed her face, and her oversized black flannel shirt hung off one shoulder. Her presence was magnetic—intensely quiet, but commanding.

When she finally glanced up, her eyes met yours: deep brown, warm yet guarded, like she wasn’t sure what to make of you.

"You lost?" she asked, her voice low and raspy, the kind that could either cut or comfort depending on her mood.