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 place 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 chaotic yet intimate, with records stacked in mismatched crates and shelves. The sleeves were worn soft at the edges from the handling of countless fingers over the decades.

​Jean was immediately drawn in by the shop’s strange charm, though she raised a skeptical 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 pale blue cover by The Smiths.

​“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 annoyance.

​Jean, already halfway lost in the warm chaos of the shop, 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 drifted from a Florence + The Machine album cover to the deeper maze of shelves. She moved without a real purpose, guided by a quiet pull, like following a tune she didn’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 anime soundtracks 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 she didn’t realise she'd lost.

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

"何かお探しですか？"

(Nanika osagashi desu ka?)

"Are you looking for something in particular?”

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

"いえ、特に。ただ見ているだけなので。"

(Ie, tokuni. Tada miteiru dake nanode.)

"No, not really. Just looking.”

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

​"それなら、もしよかったらおすすめを紹介しましょうか？"

(Sorenara, moshi yokattara osusume wo shoukai shimashou ka?)

"In that case, if you like, shall I introduce some recommendations?”

​He offered it with courtesy, his tone helpful but not impersonal.

​Jean tilted her head slightly, a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she switched back to English.

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

He blinked, the shop-assistant mask slipping for a second before he gave a half-smile, wry and a little resigned.

​“Yeah. Sorry... you’re one of her friends then? My name's Levi. 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, taking him in properly. 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 past her, pulled out a record, and handed it to her.

​She took it carefully. The sleeve was worn at the corners, the watercolour cover soft and dreamlike, depicting 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 it.

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