The next day, he went back to the record shop. Silas was there, reading a book.
“Anything I can help with?” Silas asked. the cure albums
That evening, as the light turned the color of weak tea, he put Seventeen Seconds on his father’s old turntable. The needle dropped. A single, tolling piano note. Then a bassline, simple and circular as a held breath. Robert Smith’s voice drifted in, not singing, but confiding. “A forest… a forest…” The next day, he went back to the record shop
“I think I’m ready,” Leo said.
Leo bought all three with money saved from bagging groceries. He walked home through the persistent rain, the plastic bag swinging at his side, feeling like a smuggler of precious contraband. That evening, as the light turned the color
The song A Forest wrapped around Leo. It wasn’t loud. It was deep . It was the sound of being lost on purpose, of finding a beautiful terror in the dark between the trees. For the first time in months, Leo didn’t feel the need to check his phone. He didn’t feel the need to be anywhere else. He was in the garden, the walled garden, and it was enough.
The rain was a liturgy, a steady, grey murmur against the windows of the used record shop. Leo, seventeen and carved from equal parts angst and hope, ran a finger along the dusty spines. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular. He was looking for the thing that would make him feel less alone.