“Welcome to my shop!” the man declared, inviting Aster into a shop stuffed to the brim with rows of records, posters, and seemingly every manner of musical equipment and instrument. It was the picture of Aster's very dreams. She went dumb with awe, unable to truly accept the treasure trove before her as reality. There was a welcoming feeling to the entire shop; it was structured more like a home than a store she noticed— gorgeous floral wallpaper played well against a bold looking wood floor which led to a small, winding staircase in the very back, which it itself led to a semi-open second floor loft. And beside the staircase, perched in front of a register, sat a short-haired blonde in a red and white striped t-shirt, whose matching headband ended in a bouncing, poofy peppermint bow. She looked up from the catalog she had been flipping through upon hearing them enter, bow bobbing as she raised her head.

She took one look at Aster, and her eyes went wide in excitement.

“Hello!” she beamed, shooting up from the chair. “Welcome to the shop!”

Her energetic voice sounded sweet, like spring breeze kissing wind-chimes, and with that same vernal tenderness she hopped over to them. “Mr. Floyd, who is this?!” she exclaimed, looking eagerly to the new guest.

Aster shriveled in embarrassment and her heart felt as though it would tear out of her chest in its pounding. The girl's eyes surveyed the new entrant, causing every bit of Aster to sting with the burning of attention.

“That's a good question,” Floyd said, furrowing his brow.

“You don't know her name?!” the girl rebuked, looking incredulously up at the tall man.

“Well, I've hardly had a chance!” the man blubbered. “This young lady made off with my ticket by mistake, and there was a big confusion, and— I haven't had a chance to breath since arriving here!”

Aster had gone pure crimson with humiliation. The blonde girl observed her with eyes full of pity, and softened her look.

“So, what's your name?” Aster looked up at the girl with immense hesitance, then looked away.

“It's— it's Aster,” she gave in possibly the quietest voice in the world.

The blonde girl's eyes lit up.

“What a cool name!” she exclaimed, attempting to deliver a failed high-five to Aster. “My name is Sylvia,” she beamed, not skipping a beat. The shop then fell silent; the faint bustle of commotion outside amplified in the maw of static air, Aster freezing in her inability to utter anything. The walls groaned here and there, the shop breathing while Aster could not.

“As I was explaining,” Floyd interjected, breaking the silence. “I came across this young lady at The Strawberry Set. There was a miscommunication and she happened to take my ticket for the show, necessitating me to buy another.” He paused here to adjust the frills of his shirt. “Naturally, we both agreed it an unfair expense on my end, and so agreed to work a shift tomorrow at the record shop to repay the debt.”

Sylvia's eyes twinkled.

“Really?!” she exclaimed, eye-smiling as her bow bounced upon that ever animated head of hers. “Someone who isn't Cecil!” she cheered, grabbing Aster's hands, whose ever racing heart seemed to hit new speeds every hour she spent here.

“Where are you from Aster? I don't think I ever remember seeing you around!” Sylvia asked, excitement not wavering. Aster choked, unsure of what to say. Sylvia's words had now left her very concerned with just how she'd go about explaining herself in this world.

That's right... Where is home in this place? I don't have any money, so where the fuck am I going to stay?! She panicked. Her eyes in hesitant terror were drawn to the waning sun outside the windows, the ever visible hourglass counting down the moments till her homelessness and probable death from hypothermia.

“I'm... I'm from out of town,” she stuttered. She tore her eyes away from Sylvia, hideously embarrassed at her excuse for a lie.

“Out of town you say?” Floyd interjected. “Well, we welcome you to Peppermint Plains! May I ask where you are lodging?”

Aster froze. Between the excited stares of these two strangers barreling down on her and the absolute promise of hopelessness which awaited her she felt she would die right on the spot, let alone fashion any sort of a reasonable excuse.

“I, uh, don't know,” Aster admitted meekly, lowering her head. Floyd was not perturbed by this solemn reaction, however, and seemed to brighten.

“Well, I can recommend several!” he replied eagerly, to which Aster grew even more despondent and sullen. She did not respond and instead only made several, awkward tremulous movements of her body which were an attempt to stymy the tears that were looking to burst forth in her terror.

There was no hope, she concluded. The sun was setting and she had no shelter, she had no strength to call out for help, and she had no way to return home.

Floyd and Sylvia looked at her with concern, folding their brows. Aster could not tell them that she had no money, or that she had not the slightest clue in how to even go about renting a room.

Sylvia noticed something amiss and turned to Floyd. “Mr. Floyd, what about that stuffy old room in the attic; where all those records with your face are?” she proposed. Aster looked up in astonishment.

Floyd seemed to consider Sylvia's intention, and nodded after some introspection. “I don't foresee it having much use in the immediate future. Good idea, Sylvia. Miss Aster, if it suits you, how would you feel about staying here for the night? There's a room right up those stairs,” he said, pointing to the wooden staircase behind the register which led to a dark loft. “It's nothing special, just a small bed and old records; but I'll lend it to you free of charge for the night.”

Aster stared at the two of them, blank in the face. The sense of relief, and disbelief at it coming, had utterly floored her. Then, once the shock had begun to fade, the immense feeling that she would sob like a baby in front of these strangers began to tickle hot at her still swollen eyes.

Sylvia received this overwhelmed look of Aster's with immense happiness, and lit up even brighter— if that were possible— at it. She turned to Floyd in her great joy, and her eyes went wide.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“I almost forgot!” she suddenly squealed, going onto her tiptoes. “Mr. Floyd, did you sign them?! Did you sign the Cherubs?!”

Aster looked at Floyd with great curiosity. Signing?!

“Mr. Floyd is trying really hard to sign a rock band!” Sylvia explained in a confidential tone, leaning towards her. “He was at the Strawberry Set trying to do just that; trying to sign the Cherubs! They're the biggest band in town,” she said with big, explosive gestures of her arms. “If he can sign them he's made it!”

However, Mr. Floyd went red in the face, and turned away with a guffaw, indicating that he had not. “It's not that simple a process, Sylvia!” he warbled, raising his cane. “There's much discussion to be had, and deals must be struck, and,” he grew redder in the face, his speech devolving into a stammer. “And I have to be present at the venue to do any of that. Sylvia, however, would not let a single bit of guilt be directed towards the new girl, and reproofed Floyd with a firm hand on the back, and a turn towards the door.

“Then what are you doing just standing around, Mr. Floyd?!” she peeped as she swung the shop door open on the quickly darkening streets. “It isn't like just anybody is playing Mr. Floyd— it's The Cherubs! The Cherubs! Imagine if you can sign them!”

“You think I haven't spent my whole life working up to this moment Sylvia?!” Floyd guffawed as he exited the shop, growing once more excited. “I swear it, I will not let you down!”

“Go get them!” Sylvia cheered as he tapped his cane and bid them adieu, riding his gentlemanly stroll down the sunset bleached cobblestone street in the direction of The Strawberry Set. Aster stood in the doorway on the shore of great relief as she watched the white-wigged man saunter off into the evening. Through some remarkably obtuse series of events she had managed to find a place to stay, at least for the night. Further yet, she thought on with a small spark of joy in her chest— it was in a record shop of all places.

Sylvia turned to her, the girl proving to be consistently all smiles. “Okay, let's get you into bed!” she said, flipping the closed sign over as she shut the door.

“Your bed is up here,” she said, motioning towards the staircase. The stairs led to a half open floor above the shop that contained a worn-looking bed that was nestled in between mountains of boxes and miscellaneous inventory. Old faded record jackets and forty fives were strewn about the floor, the smell of their aging paper hanging with a strong sense of dust in the air. The small, metal-framed bed lie bare with only a single tattered blanket and pillow to accompany it. Aster sat down, the loud creak of the mattress' springs echoing throughout the loft.

“Sorry it isn't much! Nobody ever uses it,” Sylvia apologized as Aster stretched out on the rickety bed. “I'm really excited you're going to work here though! Even if it is only for tomorrow,” she continued, reaching for the blinds on the far side of the room. She pulled them shut, leaving only a small sliver of burnt umber sunset spilling through. She then turned around and reached for a drawstring, illuminating the loft.

“It can be kind of drag working with just him, so it'll be nice to finally have someone cool around!” she said. Aster turned to the blanket, wholly unwilling and unable to engage in a dialogue on some stranger's drama.

“Oh no, not Mr. Floyd! He's a blast!” she added upon seeing Aster's expression. “I'm talking about Cecil. Mr. Floyd is awesome! He's really knowledgeable about lots of things and always tries his best to help the shop,” she explained while doing her best to tidy up Aster's arrangements. “He's gonna be a famous record producer you know!”

Aster, who had been hiding her eyes in the cove of the tattered old blanket and every imperfection laid upon it, perked up. “A record producer...? For real?”

“Yep!” Sylvia chirped in response. “He hasn't really produced anything yet, but that's why he's been trying really hard lately to sign a band so he can start a label! That's why he's at The Cherubs' show. If he can get them he's totally set!” she said, shimmering with excitement as she spoke.

Aster thought back to that concert as Sylvia went on, recounting with awe and sadness that loudness which shook her very organs, an auditory blanket that felt as though it were made to console just her. And yet— despite being hand-delivered to the very representation of her aspirations and dreams themselves, she still fucked it up, she told herself.

She truly was hopeless. A most unbelievable fantasy— that of seeing live music performed in the flesh, of seeing an actual band was granted for her and what could she do? Nothing but breakdown and cower in the same inadequacy she had always felt. Even in a world where everything had yet to be stripped away, her utter failure still remained her most defining crutch. Her depression still lumbered and wallowed within her— only now it had a paisley backdrop.

Her tears welled up and sprinkled the tattered blanket, bursting forth in front of a stranger for the third time today. “I'm so fucking stupid,” she whimpered into her knees as she drew them closer, the old blanket scrunching around her toes. Her tears pooled and fell, coming to rest on the peppermint-patterned arm sleeve that found itself embracing Aster's neck.

“Hey, hey. It's okay!” Sylvia said softly, holding her. Aster's eyes seized at Sylvia's words, her cries bursting forth with ten-fold the veracity. “Just let it all out,” Sylvia cooed as Aster sobbed and sobbed. It was just hideously unfair, she thought. No matter what reality she inhabited she seemed doom to suffer. Her heart ached immensely, longing for the day it didn't feel wounded by her self-hatred. Within a matter of minutes Aster's sobbing had lulled the tired girl into a much needed sleep— her baggy eyes darker than ever when all was said and done.

Seeing that she had fallen asleep Sylvia tucked Aster in and quietly made her way down from the loft. The shop's bell rang out as she did so, announcing Floyd's return. “Mr. Floyd!” she called out softly as she tip-toed over to greet him.

“Sylvia! How is our guest?” he asked.

“She's all tuckered out... practically sleeping like a baby,” Sylvia informed him as he placed his cane by the side of the door.

“Is that so? Well she did have a very hard day it appears,” he replied, hanging up his swallow-tailed peacoat.

“Seems so. I've got to make sure she has as much fun here tomorrow as possible!” she said, clasping at her hands. “But, anyways?? How did it go? Did you sign them?” she continued with elation. Floyd looked at her hopelessly forlorn and depressed, before quickly realizing how obviously he wore this and snapping into a look of smug assuredness.

“Sorry to say Sylvia, it did not work out this time. But as they say, 'One drop of rain must come before the storm.'”

Sylvia stood there, though as always seemed to befit her, in apparent perpetual motion, her bow bobbing.

“So they didn't even speak to ya, Mr. Floyd?” she quipped, cocking her head sideways. Floyd's face scrunched, his eyes darting to the side as he realized he had been found.

“Well, they are very busy after all! You should see how many journalists they have swarming the place! Completely preposterous!” He exclaimed.

“Uncultured swine!” Sylvia gleefully peeped.

“What do you figure about Aster anyways, Sylvia? Where do you think she's from?” Floyd asked, reclining back into a leather armchair that sat snug in the far left corner of the shop. Above it hung a wooden placard, dubbing it “The Listening Corner”.

“Well, she was crying an awful lot before going to sleep,” she replied, glancing up to the loft. “Do you think that... maybe she's a runaway?” she pondered glumly.

“Perhaps. I wondered the same myself. At any rate she's clearly very distressed,” he said. He fixed himself a glass of rum as Sylvia's sad eyes wandered back towards the loft above.

“I shall inquire about it after the shift tomorrow, I suppose,” he added. Sylvia perked up slightly at this.

“Good! I'm sure we can help fix whatever problems she's having,” Sylvia added with a smile.

At that moment a faint murmur of something sweet caught the ear of the two. Floyd, drink in hand, looked around in perplexment for the source of it. So hauntingly sad, it grew to just about a small whisper, when Sylvia pointed with her stubby little arm.

“Upstairs, Mr. Floyd!” she called out. It was so, the lullaby was coming from the room of the strange girl they had invited in.

“On a bed of roses...” it wavered in a sleepy tone, drifting through the shop. “...hope I open every vein...”

Floyd stood up, his rosy cheeks flashed the most royal red by his rum-driven excitement.

“What on Earth is that?” he warbled with exhilaration.

“...be so sweet to bleed out, before this love I love drives me insane...”

“Aster, Mr. Floyd! That's Aster!” she exclaimed in absolute joy as the sleeping girl above filled the room with the most heart-splittingly tender notes anyone had ever heard.