Echoes from the Old Record Store

The city is like a stone slab that is constantly wiped and rewritten, and old traces are always covered by new ink. The "Echoes of Time" record store is huddled deep in this old neighborhood that is about to be swallowed up by the wave of "urban renewal", like a dusty old button tied to the hem of a garment faded by time.

The bright red stamp of the demolition notice, like a resolute period, fell on the water-stained windowpane. The owner was a silent old man; everyone called him Uncle Chen. These days, he no longer polished the gleaming vinyl records as usual, but simply sat on a small stool by the door, puffing on his pipe, letting the smoke blur his deeply lined face. The loudspeaker in the shop lazily played unknown jazz, its hoarse sound like an old man's murmured monologue.

"Last three days! Everything's on clearance!" Ayu called out, her clear voice trying to cut through the hustle and bustle of the old street and the faint rumble of the demolition crew's machines. She was Uncle Chen's distant niece, helping out during her summer vacation, a way of giving this soon-to-be-disappearing old shop one last breath of life. Ayu didn't have any special feelings for these vinyl records; to her, they were just heavy, finely textured plastic sheets, far less convenient than the music that could be played anytime on her phone.

That afternoon, a dusty cardboard box was unearthed. Inside lay a few lonely records, one of which had a portrait of Beethoven on the cover, simple and solemn, titled "Moonlight Sonata".

“This one…” Uncle Chen picked up the record, his fingertips tracing the cover, his eyes somewhat unfocused. “It’s an old one. I got it from an old gentleman who studied abroad. It’s an original German edition.”

“The Moonlight Sonata!” A seasoned music lover nearby, who was also browsing for bargains, exclaimed, “The third movement is really exciting! How much is it?”

Uncle Chen quoted an extremely low price, almost a giveaway. The old music lover hesitated for a moment, picked up the record and looked at it against the light, then gently stroked the disc with his fingers: "Hmm... it's in pretty good condition, but I don't know how it will play."

Curious, Ayu took the record and put it into the old, worn-out record player in the shop. The needle fell with a soft "click," as if knocking on the door of time. The first movement was as soothing as moonlight, and the second movement's allegro carried a subtle melancholy; everything seemed normal.

Then, the third movement began. A rapid, stormy melody suddenly erupted, and Ayu's heart leaped into her throat. However, just as the melody was about to reach a climax, the needle suddenly clicked, jumped a short distance, and emitted a piercing, chaotic noise.

"Tsk, it's skipping tracks." The old music fan frowned. "Looks like it has scratches or is deformed."

He shook his head, seemingly disappointed, put the record back where it was, and turned to look at other things.

Uncle Chen sighed, said nothing, but picked up the record and gently wiped it with a soft cloth, as if comforting a wounded child.

Ayu, however, developed a strange curiosity about the skipped notes. Over the next few days, people came to see the "Moonlight Sonata," but all gave up because of the skipped notes. Until the evening of the last day before the demolition, only Ayu, Uncle Chen who was packing up, and the "Moonlight Sonata" that no one had ever asked about remained in the shop.

"Ayu, this one... if you don't mind, you can take it." Uncle Chen handed her the record. "If I leave it here, I'm afraid no one will listen to it anymore."

Ayu paused for a moment, noticing the dejection in Uncle Chen's eyes, then nodded and accepted the record. "Thank you, Uncle Chen."

Back home, Ayu lived in a small rented room. She found a second-hand record player that a friend had given her and carefully put on the "Moonlight Sonata".

The music started again, the familiar melody still playing. Ayu leaned against the wall, listening quietly. First movement, second movement… her heart rose and fell with the music.

The third movement has arrived.

The needle glided through the groove, and rapid notes burst forth. Ayu held her breath, waiting for that familiar "click".

It's here!

The needle jerked violently, and static returned.

But this time, Ayu didn't find it as jarring as before. She subconsciously leaned closer to the record player's speaker, trying to hear what was hidden in the chaotic noise.

The noise remained incessant, like countless tiny grains of sand rubbing together, or the crackling of some kind of electricity. But amidst this chaos, an extremely faint yet remarkably clear sound, like a fine needle, pierced the veil of noise—

"Osmanthus and Red Bean Soup—I need to chop it down—"

It was an old, soft-spoken voice, with a long, drawn-out tone, carrying a unique rhythm.

Ayu was startled and took a step back, her eyes wide open.

That voice... she knew it all too well.

That was the sound of a vendor's cry she heard every afternoon when she lived in the alleyway during her childhood. An old woman selling osmanthus and red bean soup pushed a small wooden cart, the wheels creaking on the bluestone pavement, accompanied by her signature shouts. That sound was one of the warmest background noises in her childhood memories.

How could... how could I hear this amidst the static of the skipping needles?

She thought she had misheard or was hallucinating. She replayed the third movement, paying special attention to the skipped parts.

"Osmanthus and Red Bean Soup—Sweet and Sticky—"

That's right! It's that voice again! Although it's still enveloped in the static of a skipping clock, the tone and the shift in the ending are unmistakably real!

Ayu's heart pounded, a chill mixed with inexplicable excitement coursing through her body. She couldn't believe her ears. Why was this old German record playing the cries of street vendors from her childhood alleyways when it skipped a beat?

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