A Crisp Crackle

Sliding down from the windowsill, I strolled over to the lowest shelf of the bookcase, where a stack of vintage vinyl records leaned like a colorful ramp. The warm afternoon light cut right across the glossy cardboard sleeves. I brushed my yarn fingertips over the ribbed spine of an old 80s synth record, admiring the neon graphics. Giving it a gentle nudge with my shoulder, the heavy sleeve shifted, releasing a crisp crackle and a faint scent of dusty paper. Standing back, I rested one arm casually against the edge, just listening to the quiet settling hum of the room.