Searching For- Christiana Cinn Woodman In-all C... ✧

Behind him, the bell on the shop door jingled. He turned.

"Took you long enough," Christiana said.

"I'm looking for a record. Or a person. Maybe both." Leo pulled a worn photograph from his wallet: Christiana, laughing, hair wild, holding a test pressing with a handwritten label: Woodman – Lost Songs, Side A .

Leo pulled out a plain white sleeve. Inside was the record—and a folded note in Christiana's handwriting: "Leo — Play track 3. Then meet me where all cities begin with C. You'll know." Searching for- Christiana Cinn woodman in-All C...

He rushed to the listening station, dropped the needle on track 3. A crackle, then her voice, soft as worn velvet: "Charleston… Chicago… Cleveland… Christiana… You were always at the start of my alphabet. Come home."

Then she vanished. No social media. No forwarding address. Just occasional postcards with no return address, postmarked from towns so small they barely appeared on maps.

The rain had turned Queen Street into a river of headlights and regret, but Leo stood dry under the awning of All City Records , hands deep in his coat pockets. Inside, the warm smell of old vinyl and dust wrapped around him like a familiar ghost. Behind him, the bell on the shop door jingled

"Used to come in here every week. Bought everything odd—field recordings, radio static, someone coughing on a 78." He leaned closer. "She pressed a private record once. Only 50 copies. Called it All Cities Are One City . Said if you listened close enough, you'd hear the same rain in every track."

"You know her?"

The old man nodded toward a dusty bin in the corner labeled . "Bottom row. But the record's not what you're really looking for, is it?" "I'm looking for a record

Leo laughed, and the rain outside didn't seem so cold anymore.

She was standing there, dripping rain, guitar case in hand, smiling like she'd never left.

The last time Leo had seen her was ten years ago, backstage at a folk club in Portland. She had been tuning a battered guitar, humming something she hadn't written down yet. "If you ever lose me," she'd said with a half-smile, "look in the forgotten music."