The rain had stopped days ago, but the air still clung to its dampness, as if the storm had left something behind.
From her rocking chair by the window, the old woman watched the street. Magnolia trees swayed in the breeze, their blossoms pale and heavy, bowing low as though in mourning.
She hummed softly to herself — the same tune she had hummed for years, though the notes felt fuller now, stronger, like they carried a voice beneath her own.
Upstairs, the attic door was open.
The record player sat where it always did, lace cover freshly laid, the vinyl waiting on the turntable. Sunlight cut across the grooves, catching on a faint smear of wax.
On the table beside it, a single object rested — a silver hairpin, still tangled with strands of auburn hair.
The woman's gaze lingered there, but she didn't touch it. Instead, she rose slowly, her joints cracking in quiet protest, and reached for the record.
It was always heavier after it had chosen.
From somewhere deep in the grooves, the first note shivered to life — a delicate waltz that echoed through the empty house.
The old woman closed her eyes. She could hear the circle forming again.
Down the street, a pair of footsteps approached, slow and hesitant.
By the time the knock came at the door, the record was already halfway
through its first song.