I look around. Like maybe—Dad?
But it’s not. Dad’s not here.
Dad will never be here again.
It’s only Andrew.
Of all the names, of all the people...
He picks the one that still rattles my bones.
I haven’t heard anyone call me by that name in almost eight years.
My eyes threaten to water.
I turn halfway to reel myself back in.
Andrew’s smile dips,
and he tilts his head.
“Hey… that name means something to you, doesn’t it?”
My eyes drop, to shove emotion away.
But he sees everything. Says nothing.
Just nods slow.
I point to the albums under his arm,
a quick pivot, a clean escape.
“You hoarding vinyl for yourself, or do I get a look?”
He doesn’t stop me from sliding them out from under his arm.
I leaf through them.
Janis Joplin. Hendrix. Pink Floyd.
Radiohead. Amy Winehouse.
Dr. Dre. Fleetwood Mac.
Rolling Stones. Aerosmith.Aerosmith.
These aren’t records.
They’re gods pressed into wax.
He didn’t grab hits. He grabbed history.
A little rage. A little heartbreak.
It’s curated chaos.
He's got a soundtrack for his soul,
