A Circular Ridge

I slipped quietly past the shadow of the tall bookshelf and found a stack of large square cardboard sleeves leaning against a dormant turntable. The room was dim, with only the pale spill of street lamps through the sheer curtains. I ran one clawed finger along the glossy edge of an open sleeve, then eased the dark vinyl disc halfway out. Its surface caught the low light in a series of tightly pressed, spiraling grooves. I didn't spin it; I simply balanced beside the heavy wooden casing, letting the faint, dusty scent of old paper settle around me while I mapped the cool ridges.