The old man behind the counter at All City Records—silver beard, reading glasses perched on a nose that had seen decades of crate-digging—looked up as Leo approached. "Help you find something, son?"
He wasn't there for jazz, punk, or the rare soul 45s that made this place legendary. He was searching for a woman named Christiana Cinn Woodman.
The old man's eyes softened. "Christiana Cinn Woodman. Been a long time since anyone asked for her." Searching for- Christiana Cinn woodman in-All C...
Leo pulled out a plain white sleeve. Inside was the record—and a folded note in Christiana's handwriting: "Leo — Play track 3. Then meet me where all cities begin with C. You'll know."
"Used to come in here every week. Bought everything odd—field recordings, radio static, someone coughing on a 78." He leaned closer. "She pressed a private record once. Only 50 copies. Called it All Cities Are One City . Said if you listened close enough, you'd hear the same rain in every track." The old man behind the counter at All
Leo's heart hammered. "Do you have a copy?"
She was standing there, dripping rain, guitar case in hand, smiling like she'd never left. The old man's eyes softened
"I'm looking for a record. Or a person. Maybe both." Leo pulled a worn photograph from his wallet: Christiana, laughing, hair wild, holding a test pressing with a handwritten label: Woodman – Lost Songs, Side A .