There is a café I still think about, years after I sat in it. I could not tell you what I ordered. I could not draw you a map of the street. But I remember the sound. Someone behind the counter was playing old records, the kind with a little crackle under the melody, and the whole room seemed to move at the speed of that music. People lingered. Nobody checked their phone. I stayed far longer than I meant to, and when I finally left, the song came with me.