"I called earlier," Leo said, his voice hopeful. "About the Aviators. You said there might be one pair left in the inventory system from a warehouse transfer."
"Can I help you find something specific?" a voice asked. It was a young employee named Marcus, who looked like he spent more time producing lo-fi beats than selling routers.
The first note of the trumpet hit him with a clarity that felt like a physical touch. It wasn't just sound; it was a memory. He wasn't in a store in the middle of a storm anymore. He was back in that living room, the smell of old books and pipe tobacco in the air, watching his father smile at a melody only he could hear.
"Good choice," Marcus replied, ringing up the clearance price. "They don't make them with that kind of soul anymore."
"I'll take them," Leo said, reaching for his wallet before the song even finished.
Marcus nodded slowly, a small smirk playing on his lips. "The 'Aviation' gold-standard. You’re lucky. It wasn't in the back; it was still sitting in the manager’s office. Someone ordered them three months ago and never showed up to claim them."