~Jennie’s~

“You must be Miss Streams,” the guy behind the counter says, standing up straighter like I just walked in wearing a crown.

I blink. “Um… yeah. I guess.”

The bells above the music store door jingle behind me as it closes. The place smells like varnish and nostalgia; old wood, aged amps, vinyl shelves packed to the brim. It’s warm and golden in here. Safe.

But also… weirdly formal.

The guy, a sandy-haired twenty-something in a Pink Floyd tee, gestures nervously toward the guitars. “The whole front wall’s been cleared just for you. You can try anything you want. No charge. Ever.”

I frown. “What do you mean ‘just...