Saturday, 13th January 2018

It was a lazy afternoon, one filled with a languid energy that seemed to stretch on without end. Jean, Renee, and Diane drifted through the narrow, winding alleys of Pangbourne's old village. The ancient cobblestone path echoed very softly beneath them, each step tapping into the rhythm of a village that hadn’t quite moved on from the past.

Still wrapped in the comforting scent of pastries wafting from a shop they had just passed, Diane and Jean were brought up short when Renee suddenly halted. Their confusion gave way to curiosity as they followed her gaze to a vinyl record shop, half-hidden beneath a crooked, weathered sign. 

“Can we swing by where my brother works?” Renee asked, already digging her phone out of her bag and halfway to texting. “The idiot left his wallet and keys at home again.”

“Yeah, alright,” Diane replied with a shrug. “Not like we’ve got anything better to do.”

Inside, the air changed. It was now wrapped with nostalgia, the gentle musk of aged paper, hints of pine polish, and something faintly metallic, like the scent of old guitar strings. The shop was dimly lit, its cluttered interior was a bit chaotic yet intimate, with records stacked in mismatched crates and shelves. Their sleeves were worn soft from years of handling from countless fingers.

Jean was already drawn in by the shop’s strange charm, raising an eyebrow as she scanned the overflowing shelves.

“Can’t believe places like this still exist—who even uses this clobber anymore?”

“Some people still have taste, you know,” Renee shot back with a smirk. “My brother says vinyl’s got a soul.”

Jean snorted, pulling out a record with a Get Sunk pale blue cover.

“How old is your brother anyway? Sounds like a proper pensioner.”

“He’s turning twenty in June,” Renee sighed, pocketing her phone.

“Now I definitely want to see what this soulful geezer looks like…” Diane grinned, already intrigued.

“Diane, you flirt with anything that breathes,” Renee muttered, her tone edging toward annoyed.

Jean, already halfway lost in the warm chaos of the store, waved them off with a flick of her wrist.

“I’m gonna look around while you two sort out the wallet situation,” Jean's attention was on a Florence & The Machine album cover.

Then she drifted deeper into the maze of shelves, guided by no real purpose, just a quiet pull, like following a tune you don’t remember learning. Eventually, she found herself in a secluded alcove toward the back, where a modest wooden sign read 日本音楽 — Japanese Music.

Crouching low, Jean let her fingers wander across the rows. There were melancholic ballads with delicate brushstroke artwork, bold neon city pop covers that pulsed with retro energy, and Japanese anime original soundtrack records wrapped in distant memories. Each one felt like a time capsule, humming softly in her hands.

There was something oddly familiar about this corner. Not just the language or the art, but the stillness of it, the quiet reverence. It felt like tripping over a memory you didn’t realise you'd lost.

She was just about to pull out a familiar soundtrack album when a calm, melodic voice interrupted that stillness.

"何かお探しのものはございますか？” 

(Is there something you're looking for?)

Startled, Jean turned her head. A young man stood a few feet away, his posture relaxed but poised, as though he belonged to the space as much as the records did. His wavy blonde hair was tied loosely at the nape, catching the dim light like honey at dusk. A few strands slipped free, brushing over the silver glint of multiple piercings on his left ear and the faint outline of a tattoo just beneath it. 

"特に何もありません。" 

(Nothing in particular.) 

Jean replied, her Japanese smooth and sure, like second nature. She didn’t often use it anywhere, but it always returned to her easily when needed.

"それなら、何か提案できるかもしれない?" 

(If so, maybe I could suggest something?) 

He offered with courtesy and not impersonal tone in his voice.

Jean tilted her head slightly, a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

“Let me guess—you’re Renee’s brother?”

He gave a half-smile, wry and a little resigned.

“Yeah. Sorry you’re one of her friends. My name's Levi and I thought you were a real customer.”

“Who says I can’t be both?” she replied, arching a brow. “Your Japanese is pretty good.”

“I practised,” he said with a modest nod. “Since you’re from there, I’m guessing you’re Jean?”

“I am,” she confirmed, curiosity sparking now. “Colour me impressed—you actually listen to your sister’s stories?”

“Unfortunately for me, yes. You come up more often than you’d think.”

Jean narrowed her gaze, examining him more closely now. He had the kind of look that didn’t announce itself. He was cool, but not performative. Detached, but not aloof. There was something quietly magnetic about him. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it tugged at her interest.

Without another word, he reached for a record and handed it to her.

She took it carefully. The sleeve was soft at the corners, the watercolour cover soft and dreamlike, two figures silhouetted against a twilight cityscape. The kanji on the label was delicate, almost whispered. She traced it with her thumb, and a small, genuine smile tugged at her lips before she even realised.

Maybe, just maybe, vinyl really did have a soul after all.