Monday morning came with a crisp, clear blue sky and a cold breeze that made the autumn leaves swirl along the gutters of 4th Street.
Ethan arrived at the record shop at seven-forty-five AM.
The front door opened silently—no screech, no whine—just a smooth, heavy glide across the floor mat.
He walked behind the counter, flipped the light switches, and was surprised when the back fluorescent tube didn't buzz. Mr. Henderson had apparently come in over the weekend and replaced the dead bulb with a new LED tube that cast a bright, clean white light over the jazz section.
At eight-thirty, Leo walked in, holding two cups of coffee and a cardboard tray with two breakfast sandwiches.
"Look at you," Leo said, setting the food down on the counter. "You look like a guy who actually slept nine hours."
"I did," Ethan said, picking up his coffee cup. "Slept like a rock."
"How was the street fair?" Leo asked, unwrapping his sandwich. "Did Maya's bakery make a million bucks?"
"They sold out of everything by three," Ethan said. "And the tent didn't collapse."
"Nice," Leo said, chewing. "Oh, by the way, Mr. Henderson left a note on the register this morning."
Ethan looked down at the counter. A small yellow sticky note was stuck to the glass near the tape dispenser.
Ethan - Good job with the Jersey crates. We sold four of the metal LPs online yesterday for thirty-five each. Take twenty bucks out of the drawer for lunch today. - H.
Ethan picked up the sticky note, reading it twice.
"Twenty bucks?" Ethan said, looking at Leo. "Mr. Henderson gave us lunch money?"
"I know!" Leo said, his mouth full of egg and cheese. "I told you! The man is losing his edge! Next thing you know, he's gonna buy us a microwave for the back room!"
Before Ethan could answer, the silent front door opened.
Maya walked in, wearing her green flannel shirt under her dark jacket, holding a paper bag from the bakery.
"Morning, boys," she said, walking up to the counter.
"Hey," Ethan said, feeling that same quiet, easy warmth return to his chest.
She set the paper bag down on the glass case. "Sarah sent these. Apple turnovers. She said if Ethan doesn't eat at least two, she's gonna be offended."
"I'll eat two," Ethan said instantly.
Maya looked at him, her dark eyes warm in the bright white LED light of the shop. "How's your back?"
"Fine," Ethan said, leaning his hands on the counter. "How are your arms?"
"Still sore," she admitted, leaning her hip against the glass. "But we made enough money on Saturday to pay off our new commercial mixer."
She looked around the clean, quietly lit shop, her eyes resting for a second on the silent front door.
"It's quiet in here today," she observed.
"It's always quiet on Monday," Ethan said.
Maya looked right into his eyes, a small, genuine smile curving her lips. "I like it quiet."
"Me too," Ethan said softly.
Leo looked between the two of them, holding his half-eaten breakfast sandwich, a sudden look of realization dawning on his face. He looked at Ethan, then at Maya, then back at Ethan, his eyes widening.
"Wait a minute..." Leo said slowly, pointing a crumb-covered finger at them. "Did you guys... hang out this weekend?"
Maya turned her head toward Leo, her expression shifting instantly into her classic deadpan glare. "Shut up, Leo, and eat your sandwich."
Ethan couldn't help it—he let out a real, loud laugh that echoed off the high wooden ceilings of the shop, picking up an apple turnover from the bag as the morning sun shone brightly through the clean glass window onto 4th Street.
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