The grandfather clock's chime in the corner of the shop was always Azazel's most honest marker of time. Not the soulless blinking of a digital clock, but a mechanical tick that whispered of time passed, of stories buried amidst ancient gears. Three in the afternoon, and the late sunlight pierced the display window, sweeping through the fine dust dancing in the air, illuminating stacks of leather-bound books and silent oil lamps.
Azazel, as usual, was meticulously polishing a wooden music box. His long, slender fingers moved carefully over the carved surface, as if every touch could awaken a long-dormant melody. Chloe, his beloved grey tabby cat, was curled up on a thick stack of antique catalogs, her tail occasionally twitching to the rhythm of the clock's chime.
"Look, Chloe," Azazel whispered, his voice calm, almost monotonous, like drizzle on a tin roof. "This music box, it must have been the center of attention once. Every turn of its key was a promise of happiness, wasn't it? Now, it only holds silence. Like a promise rusted at the bottom of the heart."
Chloe merely stretched, opened one yellow eye, then closed it again. Azazel smiled faintly. He knew Chloe understood, or at least, the cat was always a loyal listener to his melancholic antique analogies.
The shop door creaked, breaking the silence. A young woman entered, wearing a bright checkered dress and carrying a large tote bag. Her face was scowling. "Excuse me, sir! Is this really 'Old Tales' shop? Not 'Broken Tales'?"
Azazel raised an eyebrow. He carefully set down the music box. "That's right, Miss. How can I help you?"
The woman sighed dramatically. "I'm looking for a vinyl record. A vinyl record that—" She rolled her eyes. "—well, a vinyl record that won't make my ears bleed." She then pointed to her tote bag. "I brought my grandfather's records. He said they were very antique, but I tried to play them, and I swear, it's the most horrible sound I've ever heard."
Azazel walked closer, his gaze sweeping over the woman, then shifting to her tote bag. Observational and attentive to detail, he could already guess the problem. "Vinyl records aren't like music apps, Miss. There's a way to treat them."
The woman crossed her arms over her chest. "Oh really? So I need to use a special spell or something? Should I put sandalwood oil on it and have a heart-to-heart with it?" Her tone was cynical, but Azazel caught a trace of deeper frustration.
"No sandalwood oil needed," Azazel replied calmly, expressionless. "Perhaps it just needs a new stylus needle, or maybe your player isn't compatible with certain types of records. Vinyl records are fragile, Miss, like memories replayed too often. Sometimes, they need the right treatment so their sound doesn't crack." He pointed to her bag. "May I see?"
The woman huffed, but handed over her bag. Azazel pulled out several old vinyl records from inside. One of them, with a faded cover depicting a classical orchestra, looked almost new. He saw an old gramophone needle in the corner of the table.
"This is a 78 RPM record," Azazel explained, holding the record up to the light, checking for scratches. "And I'm willing to bet you're playing it on a modern gramophone designed for 33 or 45 RPM records. It's like trying to put the wrong key into a lock. It won't fit, and it will only damage both."
The woman fell silent. Her brows furrowed. "So... my grandfather wasn't crazy? He didn't accidentally give me broken records?"
Azazel shook his head. "No. He gave you a treasure, Miss. You just haven't found the right treasure chest to open it." He reached for a new stylus needle from the cash register drawer. "Here, try replacing the needle with this, and make sure your gramophone can adjust the playback speed. If not, I have some older units in the back that might be suitable for this."
The woman's face softened slightly. "Oh... I see. I thought I just needed a 'Vinyl Auto-Correct' app." She chuckled awkwardly. "Sorry to bother you."
"No problem," Azazel replied, handing the record back to her. He returned to his music box, beginning to clean it again. "Every object has its own story. Our job is just to find the right way to listen to it."
The woman looked at the record in her hand, then at Azazel who was once again engrossed in his world. Chloe jumped from the stack of catalogs, rubbing herself against the woman's legs.
"Is this your cat?" she asked, bending down to pet Chloe.
"That's right. Her name's Chloe," Azazel answered without looking up, his lips curving slightly. "She's my assistant. A bit lazy, but good at judging customers' music tastes."
The woman laughed, a crisp laugh that was a little surprising in the quiet shop. "Well, then, Chloe, do you think my grandfather's record is worth listening to?"
Chloe meowed softly, as if agreeing.
"Alright," the woman said, standing up. "Thank you very much, sir. I'll try this at home. Hopefully, I won't have to call a detective for this 'Mysterious Vinyl' case." She smiled faintly before turning and walking out, the creak of the door accompanying her departure.
Azazel refocused on the music box. A misunderstanding customer, a listening cat, and a record waiting to be played correctly. At "Old Tales," small dramas like these were part of the daily melody. He sighed, a slightly melancholic breath, yet with a touch of satisfaction within it. Every day, a new "object" would arrive, bringing a story, and sometimes, a little mystery hidden beneath the dust of time.