Hey Cherry, ever been to a tiny shop where an old gramophone sits in the corner, its brass bell glowing warm in the dim light, and you can hear the faint hiss of the needle before the first track starts? I’ve been trying to get one back in shape, and it feels like a ritual—like a quiet ceremony for the music that used to fill a room. It’s a blend of mechanical whisper and a bit of old‑world romance, if that makes sense. What’s your take on the beauty hidden in these forgotten devices?