Chapter 4: Echoes from the Past

He barely took the time to pull on his jeans and boots, grabbing his wallet and keys as he dashed down the stairs. The early morning air slapped him awake, and he jogged across the street to the tiny record shop, its neon sign still flickering from the night before.

The shop owner, bleary-eyed, lifted the shutter and yawned. "Detective McAllister, you’re up early."

The man’s flannel shirt was buttoned wrong, and he smelled faintly of coffee and vinyl. A Cleveland Browns pennant hung above the register, and a signed Springsteen album adorned the wall, giving the shop a sense of local pride. Daniel didn’t bother with small talk.

"You got CDs?" Daniel asked abruptly.

He was nearly out of breath, his words coming in short bursts. The owner raised an eyebrow but didn’t seem surprised—Daniel’s odd hours were well known in the neighborhood.

"CDs? Plenty. What do you want—pop, jazz, country?"

He gestured to the racks, stacked high with jewel cases. The shop was a time capsule—posters of Springsteen and Madonna, a dusty jukebox in the corner.

Daniel hesitated. "Any from 1988?"

He tried to keep his voice steady, but the urgency bled through. The owner scratched his chin, thinking.

The owner laughed. "Detective, you’re joking. CDs didn’t really catch on here until the '90s. The oldest I’ve got are from after 2000."

He gave a rueful shrug, as if apologizing for the march of technology.

"Oh." Daniel sighed and was about to leave when the owner stopped him. "Wait…"

The owner ducked behind the counter, rummaging through stacks of boxes. Daniel tapped his foot, nerves jangling. After a minute, the owner emerged, lugging a battered cardboard box.

He brought out a dusty old cardboard box from the back, opened it to reveal a jumble of cassette tapes. "Didn’t expect you to be nostalgic, Detective. These are tapes from the '80s—pick one if you like."

The tapes were a mess—labels peeling, plastic cracked, but Daniel’s heart skipped as he rifled through them.

Daniel picked up a few: Bruce Hornsby, Whitney Houston… Their labels were faded with age. The owner said, "They’ve been stored too long—the tapes are probably shot. Might not play."

Daniel ran his thumb over the plastic cases, feeling the weight of years. He remembered listening to tapes like these in his dad’s old Chevy Caprice, windows down, the lake breeze in his hair on a summer road trip to Cedar Point.

"Any from 1988?" Daniel asked.

The owner rummaged around and found one with a nearly illegible label. "This one should be from 1988."

He squinted at the faded writing, holding it up to the light. Daniel took it, hope flickering.

Daniel examined it. "What songs are on it?"

He tried to make out the tracklist, but the ink was little more than a smudge.

"No idea," the owner shrugged. "The label’s worn off."

He offered an apologetic smile, as if sharing in the mystery.

"Can you play it?"

"Let’s try, but it’s probably toast." He loaded the tape and pressed play. After a moment, only static came out.

The hiss of static filled the shop, drowning out the morning quiet. Daniel held his breath, straining to hear anything familiar.

"Told you, it’s dead," the owner said, about to turn it off, but Daniel stopped him. "Wait—listen! There’s something!"

Daniel leaned in, pressing his ear closer to the battered old speaker. The static thinned, and a faint melody emerged—ghostly, but unmistakable.

They strained their ears. Amidst the static, faint lyrics could be heard:

> One shines in winter, one shines at night, shines at night…

The melody was simple, sweet—childlike, yet haunting. Daniel felt a chill crawl up his spine.

"Oh, it’s 'Planting the Sun.' Man, that takes me back. When that song came out, I was still in grade school," the owner said, squinting as if recalling the past. "I remember, it was performed by the Milky Way Kids."

He chuckled softly, nostalgia warming his voice. The shop seemed to shrink, the years falling away.

"Milky Way?!" Daniel was startled, as if struck by lightning.

He nearly dropped the tape, his mind racing. The pieces were falling into place, faster than he could process.

"Yeah, the Milky Way Children’s Choir." As the tape hissed, the owner softly sang along:

> I have a wish, bright and new

> When I grow up, I’ll plant a sun or two

> Just planting one and then another

> There’ll be suns for every brother

> One for Antarctica, one for the Arctic sea

> One shines in winter, one shines for me

> La la la, we’ll plant the sun

> La la la, one for everyone

> Then every corner of the earth

> Will glow with warmth and endless mirth

The owner’s voice was thin but earnest, echoing with the innocence of childhood. Daniel listened, the words ringing in his ears, each verse a clue.

As the cheerful melody played, Daniel’s face turned ashen. He felt like he’d been hit with a ton of bricks.

He clutched the tape, heart pounding. The song’s innocent lyrics suddenly seemed sinister, the coded message unmistakable. Daniel’s hands shook, and he nearly dropped the tape as realization dawned.