He approached the booth, but the closer he got, the more the music fractured. He reached out to touch the DJ’s shoulder, only for the man to turn around. The face wasn't a face at all, but a shimmering reflection of Marc’s own apartment from five years ago.
"I was here," the reflection whispered, syncing perfectly with the track. "Waiting for the record to start over."
The city was a blur of neon and rain, but for Marc, everything felt like a skip on a scratched vinyl. He had spent the last three hours searching for a specific record store in the 11th Arrondissement—one that he swore existed yesterday, but today was just a brick wall.