Finding a place was only half the job. The real challenges started right after the inspection.

For the first week, Needle and Plate lived in dust and debris: tearing out old counters, hauling bags of rubble, prying off mirrors and redundant wiring. They undid everything that didn’t allow the place to breathe freely. The ceiling was odd — riddled with holes for fixtures, as if every previous owner had tried to leave a mark. The walls didn’t help either — crooked, like traces of someone’s doubts.

There was plenty of work, but it was exciting. The store wasn’t meant to be just a stash of records, but a coherent, tactile space with character. A black staircase, wood, glass, acoustic panels, track lighting — everything was falling into place. The interior, initially foreign and quiet, was starting to take shape.

One evening, they stepped inside with no tools — just to look. It was quiet, like in a studio right before the recording.

“Do you feel it?”

“Yeah,” Plate nodded. “Just a little more to go. Then we’ll see what the city has to say.”