The Playlist Between Journeys

Arina Jet reaches for a song she has almost forgotten. Standing at the edge of the terminal concourse, she recognizes its opening notes before she remembers where she first heard it. Her silver case rests beside her; her phone sits lightly in one hand. She lets the introduction play, then adds the track to a list called Between Journeys. The name has been on her phone for months. This is the first afternoon she has given it much thought.

Her working day has ended, and there is time before her ride arrives. She is still wearing her ivory uniform, with its gold buttons and narrow gold bands at the collar and cuffs. Her highlighted brown hair is braided back. Everything she carried into the day is still with her, but there is nothing she needs to finish immediately. She checks the pickup time, puts a reminder in place and turns toward the public concourse.

The playlist began with three songs. One had accompanied a rainy walk; another reminded her of the kitchen in her old apartment. The third had no particular memory attached to it. She simply liked the little change in its melody halfway through. Since then, she has kept adding tracks whenever one catches her attention. Looking at the list now, she sees an untidy collection of afternoons rather than a carefully arranged musical taste.

Arina slips her phone into her bag and walks with one white earbud in place, leaving the other ear clear. She keeps the sound low and pauses it whenever she needs to listen to the terminal around her. The wheels of her case follow the lines in the floor. Above them, the daylight reaches through tall glass panels. She has walked through many spaces like this, but the familiar melody gives this one a small association of its own.

A Song at the Café

At the café, she pauses the song to order. A table near the window has room for her case beside the chair. She settles there with a plain white cup and a croissant, sets her phone face down and resumes the track after sitting down. It begins again a little earlier than she expects. She smiles at the repeated opening, recognizing how quickly a new song can start to feel familiar when she has heard it twice.

The cup is warm through its handle. Arina takes a sip, then breaks a piece from the croissant. There is no reason to make this into a perfect scene, although the afternoon has arranged itself pleasantly: pale sleeves, white porcelain and a square of light on the tabletop. She leaves the phone where it is. For the length of one song, she can enjoy what she has ordered without looking for something else to do.

A second track follows, softer than the first. It reminds her of opening a window at home while getting ready on a Sunday. She had forgotten the song, but the room comes back clearly: a plant on the sill, a mug beside the sink and a curtain moving in the breeze. The memory has no important event in it. She likes it anyway. A place she once passed through every morning has become something she can revisit for a few minutes.

Before leaving the table, she takes the phone and moves that song nearer the beginning of the playlist. The order is becoming more personal. She places the brighter track after it, followed by one she enjoys for its steady rhythm. She stops after those small adjustments. A list can remain unfinished and still be useful. There will be other journeys and other afternoons when a different sequence feels right.

Something to Take Home

Beyond the café, a small record shop opens onto the public shopping corridor. Its window holds square sleeves in cream, blue and terracotta, their designs simple enough to catch her eye from a distance. Arina removes her earbud, places it in its case and goes inside. The change from listening to looking is immediate. Here, she can choose something by holding it, turning it over and giving it more attention than a small picture on a screen.

She parks her silver case close to the end of a low display and lifts one sleeve from the bin. Its cover is terracotta, crossed by an abstract cream shape. The image feels warm against the ivory of her uniform. She reads the track list on the back, then returns to the front. One title sounds familiar. She checks it on her phone and discovers that it belongs to an instrumental piece she saved months ago but rarely plays.

Arina has a record player at home. It usually sits beneath a dust cover, with a few favorite records stacked nearby. She thinks of placing this one beside them and listening when there is no bag waiting by the door. The thought gives the purchase a place in her life beyond the shop. She chooses the record and slips the protected sleeve into a plain beige canvas bag, keeping it upright so its corners stay clear of the other things she carries.

Outside, she adds the instrumental to Between Journeys. Its gentle opening changes the feel of the list, and she moves it toward the end. She has begun to hear a shape in what she has chosen: something familiar, something lively and something that leaves room for the view outside. The arrangement does not need a rule. It only needs to be one she wants to return to when she next has a little time between places.

The Last Track by the Window

With her ride still some minutes away, Arina finds an armchair in a quiet lounge near the pickup area. The glass beyond it is beginning to reflect the evening sky. She places her case beside the chair and the canvas bag alongside it, with the terracotta sleeve visible at the top. Her phone rests on the small wooden table. In the same ivory uniform, she settles into a more relaxed part of the afternoon without needing to change anything else.

She listens to the instrumental once, looking through the window instead of at the screen. The music is different here from the brief sample she heard in the shop. There is time to notice the spaces between its phrases and the way the melody returns. She imagines hearing it again at home, perhaps while putting away her things. The record in the bag now carries two associations: the shop where she found it and this chair beside the evening glass.

When the pickup reminder appears, Arina pauses the track and puts her earbud away. She checks that the sleeve is protected, returns the phone to her bag and rises from the chair. The afternoon has given her something modest to take home. She has a record she wants to play and a playlist that feels less like a collection of saved tracks and more like a few memories placed in an order she can recognize.

Later, Between Journeys will fit into other moments: a seat by a window, an easy walk, the first minutes after returning home. Some songs will stay, and others will move further down the list. Arina is happy to let it change. As she wheels her case toward the exit, the music has stopped, but she can still remember the opening notes that brought her afternoon into focus. She leaves with a new record and a familiar song waiting for next time.