Her hand in mine felt like an anchor in a storm I didn't even know I was in.
It was small and warm, and I found myself matching my pace to hers, shortening my usual long strides. The world seemed to narrow down to this single, fragile connection.
Don't overthink it, Kelin, my brain warned. It's just holding hands. It's Day 78, not Day Infinity.
But my heart, that stupid, traitorous muscle, was doing a victory lap. Thump-thump-thump.
"Okay, so we've conquered legendary custard," Sina said, swinging our joined hands slightly. "What's the next trial on this epic quest, O Messenger?"
I scanned the street ahead, my mind racing. I had a few pre-planned options. The arcade with the notoriously broken claw machine (Day 17's hilarious disaster), the little art gallery with the weird modern sculptures (Day 55's deep conversation).
But then I saw it.
Tucked away, with a peeling green door and a window cluttered with faded album covers, was an old record store. A sign, written in chalk, simply said: "Lost Sounds."
It wasn't on my list. It was spontaneous. It was perfect.
"The prophecy wasn't clear," I said, a slow grin spreading across my face. "But I think our next clue is in there."
I tugged her gently towards the door.
CREAK. JINGLE.
A small bell announced our arrival. We stepped out of the bright morning and into a different era. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, dust, and something electric and warm. Sunlight cut through the grimy windows in hazy golden shafts, illuminating millions of dancing dust motes.
Rows upon rows of vinyl records stood in silent testament to forgotten melodies. It was a library of emotions, pressed into black plastic.
"Whoa," Sina breathed, her eyes wide with wonder. She let go of my hand, but I didn't mind. Watching her explore was a better feeling anyway. She drifted down an aisle, her fingers ghosting over the spines of album covers.
"It's like a treasure chest," she whispered, pulling one out at random. It featured a bizarre painting of a man with a pineapple for a head. She giggled and showed it to me. "I think I found Agent Pineapple's theme song."
My laugh was genuine. "His ego is big enough already, don't encourage him."
An idea sparked. A new game.
"Alright, new quest rule," I declared. "You have to pick an album based on the cover alone. No looking at the artist or the song titles. The one that calls to your soul."
She accepted the challenge with a determined nod. "Only if you do it, too."
"Deal."
We split up. I watched her from a few aisles over, pretending to look for my own. She was completely absorbed, her brow furrowed in concentration. She'd pull a record out, study the art with the intensity of a museum curator, and then slide it back.
Finally, she let out a small, triumphant "Aha!" and pulled one out, holding it to her chest like she'd found a winning lottery ticket.
I quickly grabbed one that caught my eye. It was a simple, melancholy photograph of a rain-slicked city street at night, with a single, blurry figure standing under a streetlamp. It felt... familiar.
We met at the front of the store, where a few ancient listening booths were tucked into a corner.
"You first," I said, gesturing for her to reveal her choice.
She presented it with a flourish. The cover was a surreal, cosmic painting of a fluffy white cat in a tiny, bubble-helmed spacesuit, floating through a sea of swirling nebulae and musical notes.
I stared at it. Of all the records in this entire store, she picked the cat one.
My heart did a painful, hopeful squeeze.
"Mr. Snugglesworth's solo album, I presume?" I managed to say, my voice a little thick.
"It's the untold story of his journey to find the Tuna of a Thousand Suns," she said, her expression dead serious. "I can feel it."
I showed her mine. She looked at the lonely figure on the cover, her smile softening into something more thoughtful.
"It looks... quiet," she said.
"Let's find out."
We squeezed into one of the tiny listening booths. It was a tight fit, our knees bumping. The air suddenly felt warmer, charged. The old player inside had one headset with two earpieces connected by a short, tangled wire.
"Looks like we'll have to share," I said, trying to sound casual as I untangled the cord.
She nodded, her gaze fixed on my hands. I handed her the right earbud, and my fingers brushed against her palm. I put the left one in my own ear.
First, we played hers. I put the needle on the record.
HISS. CRACKLE. POP.
Then, the music started. It was an upbeat, whimsical instrumental track, full of playful xylophone notes and a bouncy bassline. It sounded exactly like a cat's adventure in space should.
A huge grin spread across Sina's face. She started tapping her foot, her head bobbing to the rhythm. I didn't listen to the music. I watched her. I watched the joy unfold in her eyes, pure and unfiltered.
When the song ended, we switched to my record. The mood in the tiny booth shifted instantly.
HISS. CRACKLE.
A slow, haunting piano melody filled the silence. A soft, male voice began to sing in English, his words laced with a beautiful, aching sadness.
Sina stilled beside me. She wasn't smiling anymore. She was just listening, her eyes distant.
The song was about waiting. About seeing the same sunrise every day, hoping it would be the one that changed everything. I hadn't known that when I picked it. It was just a random, cosmic coincidence.
A punch to the gut.
The final piano note faded, leaving a ringing silence.
She slowly took the earbud out and turned to face me in the dim light of the booth. Our faces were only inches apart. I could see the flecks of gold in her amber eyes.
"That one was sad," she said softly. "But... not in a bad way."
She paused, searching for the right words.
"It sounded like it was waiting for someone."
BOOM.
The world tilted. My breath hitched in my throat. She saw it. She heard it. In a song chosen by chance, on a day she would never remember, she saw right into the deepest, most hidden part of me.
She saw the boy who waits for the sunrise.
I couldn't speak. My throat was too tight. All the jokes, all the witty comebacks, died on my lips. All that was left was the raw, crushing truth.
Yes, I wanted to scream. I'm waiting. Every single day, I am waiting for you.
But I couldn't.
So I did the only thing I could. I pulled back, breaking the spell, and forced a shaky smile.
"See? Total coincidence," I said, my voice sounding strained. "Guess I'm just a sucker for sad songs."
I bought her the space cat record. As the shopkeeper put it in a paper bag, I knew that tomorrow, it would just be a weird album she didn't remember buying. A relic from a lost day.
But for me, it would be the proof. The proof that for a few minutes in a dusty listening booth on Day 78, she understood me completely.
And that was a memory I would carry for the both of us.