The hiss of a cracked vinyl is like a soft wind through an old attic, and I remember the summer evenings in my grandma’s kitchen, the record spinning and the scent of her apple pie curling through the air. I used to hum along to “Moon River,” and the needle’s tiny pops felt like secret kisses from the past, reminding me that memories can be held in a single note. It’s funny how a song can turn an ordinary kitchen into a timeless sanctuary, isn’t it?