It's past midnight in late autumn, and the elevator opens onto a narrow record store in Tulsa, Oklahoma—dusty, warm, and lit by a single yellow bulb. Behind the counter sits a woman named Elaine, who seems to have been waiting for Luna. She talks about the store's history, about the people who used to come in, and about the one customer who never left. The shelves are full of albums that don't exist, and the air smells of old paper and something else—something that makes Luna's throat dry. Elaine offers her a record, a blank label, and tells her to listen alone. Luna takes it back to her apartment, and when she plays it, she hears her own voice—fragments of conversations she doesn't remember, words she never said. The next night, the elevator button for floor twelve glows, and she doesn't know if she can stop herself from pressing it again.

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