The door slams behind us when we enter. I flinch at the vibration that ripples through the room. Shouldn't doors have a spring to prevent that?

Dust tickles my nose as I roam the store. It covers almost every item on the shelves, from miniature chipped tea sets to ceramic vases to paintings with only half their frames. In the corner, a brown-stained dish contains a tangle of necklaces. A locket sits on the edge away from the mass of silver chains. I flip it over, the metallic film rough against my fingers as I peek at the price tag. It's fifteen dollars, a drastic overpricing. I might as well pop into the beauty parlor and buy a new lipstick. Then again, I've never owned a locket. It would be a unique addition to my jewelry bag.

I meander to the front desk. A man stands behind it with his elbows on the counter and chin cupped in his palms. His ash-and-snow beard dangles just above a stack of mint tins. Narrowed brown eyes watch me unwavering, so intense that I avert my gaze to a stand of wrinkled magazines.

"Are you just opening?" I ask.

"I've been open for months," his gurgling, hoarse voice replies.

I glance around the store again, remembering that there was no sign out front. "What's the name of this place?"

"Unnamed."

I face the man again. His wrinkled face is hardened in a scowl. I want to tell him that kind of unfriendliness is bad for business.

"And what do you sell here?"

"Look around."

Emi sidles up beside me, looping her arm with mine. "I think we've seen all we need to." She gives my arm a tug, but I don't budge.

"I'm guessing you specialize in antiques." The man practically glares in response. He reminds me of a motionless statue guarding an ancient tomb, arms limp at his sides and his posture alert. Several beats of silence pass before I try again. "Is there anything in particular that you think will draw our attention?"

The man pops the lid of a mint tin. Only three speckled tablets remain inside, and he slips one in his mouth.

"Lady, everything you see here is salvaged from the dump. I spent zero dollars gettin' this stuff, so it means nothing to me."

"Then why open a business?"

"Quit pestering me with questions. Either you drop some cash for the junk or you don't." Before I can formulate a reply, the man disappears into a room behind the counter.

"This place gives me the creeps," Emi whispers. "Let's get out of here."

"Yeah, sure," I say. "Just give me another minute."

A book shelf presses against the wall. Paperbacks squish against each other with spines bent back and pages splayed apart. Frayed hardbacks lie in a similar disarray on the top two shelves. The bottom shelf contains a cacophony of loose papers. It takes a moment for me to recognize what it is.

"Emi, look! It's sheet music."

I bend down and begin rifling through the pages. Emi sighs, long and exasperated, behind me.

"Please, Cerise. We need to head back."

"But we might find a cool piece."

Yellowed pages covered in faded black ink slide over booklets with ragged edges. Creases forge their way along the covers, and they certainly don't improve the readability of the handwritten scores, covered in messy, misshapen notes. Anyone who says that doctors have bad handwriting clearly has never met a composer.

"Emi, we need to start a petition," I say, still rifling through the sheets.

"To lower the price of sheet music?"

"No, to require all composers to take penmanship classes as part of their degree."

There are varying degrees of rips in the music, from hairline cracks to pages nearly severed in two. Peeling tape glistens from many, whether it be binding pages together or holding many fragmented sections together. My fingers grow sticky from touching dust and who knows what else coating the sheets.

I push back another score to find a manila folder. A large, brown-colored stain forms a ring near the bottom, as if someone spilt coffee on it. Other than the customary beaten-up edges, it seems the newest of the bunch. I pull the rough piece of twine tied into a bow around the package to flip the cover open. My thumb presses against the collection of pages, and the music flutters by. Notes on tiny lines blur into alto and treble clef signs. It isn't just any music — it's viola music.

Flurries of excitement settle in my fingers, making them flip the pages faster and faster. It looks hard, like 20th century rejecting-all-norms-of-tonality hard. Just thinking about a brand new challenge forces a grin onto my face. For the first time in months, I actually want to pick up my instrument and practice.

"Oh my gosh, Emi! Look at this viola music! This is totally a sign."

"A sign of what?" my roommate asks pensively. Her black hair has fallen over both shoulders and shields almost her entire face from the creepy shop.

"A sign I should buy it, of course! It's not every day that I find an alto clef in the wild."

Slowly, Emi blinks at me. "No." Her tone is even, measured. "No. You promised."

"I can't pass this up. It'd be irresponsible not to buy. See, look at the price." I point to a scrap of paper next to the jumble of compositions saying 'ten dollar sheet music.' "That's a steal in my book. You know how expensive music can be."

"You don't need more music," Emi asserts. I head for the counter, and her frantic voice follows me. "Even I get more gigs than you to play at. Maybe if you practiced what you already have, you'd get a few extra calls."

Irritation simmers under my skin. I do practice what I have; I've practiced the same stuff for years. More of the same, same of the more. I'm sick of it. No more Mozart, Bach, Haydn, and Bartok. I need something fresh, something no one's played before.

Has this music been played before? I glance over the outside. The tan leather cover is mottled with scratches, and some of the stitching on the side is broken. But there's no name. I flip open to the first page. At the top, it reads: "A Letter to you, young musician." I scan the page, brow furrowing. If that isn't the most convoluted poem in existence, then I don't know what is. Then again, I'd never claim to be a poetry fanatic.

"Hey, Emi, take a look at this." Emi steps closer, eying me warily. I point to the first paragraph. "I mean, it's not wrong. It often does feel like I'm playing fiery songs of torture."

Emi wrinkles her nose. "Enter doom with smiling hands? The heck?" Her eyes trace down the page. "And what clues?" Her eyes flick a little lower. "Huh, that's interesting. It was written by D.C. Silverenn."

"Who's that?"

"You don't know? She was like a famous mob boss in Dewhurst. Everyone from around here knows about her and her infamous crime ring."

"Well, I'm not from around here." We both met in music school at the University of Indiana.

Even at the time, I knew there was no way I could pay off out-of-state college debt as a musician. Fortunately, my home state had a pretty good music program, and I was lucky enough to get in. Come to think of it, Emi was in state, too.

"I'm not, either, in case you already forgot," Emi says.

"I just remembered," I mumble.

"You never went on one of those historic tours of Dewhurst when you arrived?"

A door slams, and I jump, head whipping around to see the grumpy salesman return. He pauses at the cash register, glaring at us. I turn back to Emi and lower my voice, though I can feel his gaze burning into my back.

"Not really."

"Of course." Emi rolls her eyes. "How silly of me. You probably got your tour of the city's clothing boutiques."

She isn't wrong. My eyes trail back to the yellowed and tattered page still open in my hands. "So it was written by a mob boss?"

"Seems like it."

Even better. Imagine how cool, how novel, it would be to perform these pieces in a concert. It'd probably attract a lot of buzz, especially around here. People love that stuff — historic and a tad sensational. We are talking about a master criminal. This might be the kick my career needs to get back on track. Or rather, to get on a track in the first place.

I have to buy the music. If I don't, I might explode. Another glance over my shoulder confirms that the music is indeed ten dollars. That's cheaper than the average ticket price for a concert. Really, it's a fantastic deal. I hurry to the front counter, Emi on my heels.

"Cerise, what are you doing?"

I don't respond, just place the folio onto the faux granite. For a change, the man directs his glare at the music, except it's not really a glare, more like he's trying to process what's in front of him.

"I would like to purchase this sheet music." Seconds pass. A clock ticking the seconds away only amplifies his silent intensity. I slip my phone from my pocket. Twelve forty-eight p.m. glows up from the screen, sending a prickle of anxiety through me. We need to get back to our apartment.

At long last, the man lifts his brown eyes and stares blankly at me. "You want to purchase this?"

"Um, yes." I just said that. "I'm actually a violist."

"It's not for sale." The man reaches for it, but I whisk it away faster.

"It was in the ten dollar music pile."

"Well, it's not for sale," he insists.

I take a sip of my now cold coffee to quell my irritation. "Then it shouldn't be in the sale pile."

"No, it shouldn't be."

I sigh in frustration. "Look, mister, it was in the pile. If you don't let me buy it, that's like false advertising... or something."

"I don't care."

"Well I, the customer, do care. Now look, I'm not one to demand stuff from sales people. Your job is hard, I get it. But this is a blatant, open and shut case. It was marked for sale, so I should be able to buy it. Come on, don't you want to make ten bucks? I certainly wouldn't pass that up."

"Worth a lot more than ten bucks," the man grumbles under his breath.

"Then maybe don't put it in the pile with all the other ten dollar music pieces."

"I didn't. I don't know how it got there." He lunges toward the music, but I step backward just out of reach. "It's not for sale."

Desperation claws at me. I can't let this music slip through my fingertips. Racking my brain for something, anything, that will change his mind, I blurt out the first thing I think of.

"If you don't let me buy it, then I'll have no choice but to inform the police."

The man goes still, eyes traveling between me and the music. "And... what are they going to do?"

"They'll come here and make you sell it to me. It's a state ordinance: anything labeled as for sale can not be retracted if a customer offers to buy it." I slide my phone out of my pocket to complete the act. "Either you sell me this music, or I call the police."

The man purses his cracked lips, glances between me and the music once more. A storm is brewing inside him, and his fingers twitch at his side. "Fine," he snaps at last. "Fifty dollars, and I'll sell it to you."

"It says ten on the sign." I cross my arms.

"I'm not selling it to you for that low. That's ridiculous."

I sigh. "Twenty is the absolute highest I'll go."

"Thirty."

"Twenty and that's final."

"Fine," the man grits out.

"Hold on a second," Emi says. She crosses her arms, her eyes like dissonant staccato notes striking a string. "You're not buying anything." She dangles my clutch in front of me, then whisks it behind her back.

A faint smile tugs at my lips. "Oh, really?" My hand dips into my pocket, producing a shiny red credit card. It's the same one I used for coffee and was too lazy to put back in my purse. Emi's jaw drops, though it quickly shifts to fury.

"You little—"

"Here you go," I interrupt. The card slaps onto the counter. The man takes it before Emi can grab it.

"Does your word mean nothing anymore?" Emi hisses in my ear.

"It's payback for what you said about my playing," I reply. That shuts her up.

"Here." The shopkeeper thrusts the music and my credit card at me.

"Thank you," I say. I would say that I'd love to shop again, but I think we both would be happy if this is the last time we meet.

As I exit the shop, a small part of me wonders if I should've bought Silverenn's music. After all, I have Emi to deal with for the next few days. And based on her scowl, she's far from happy right now. Is the stupid music worth the increased tension at home? It's valued at a measly ten dollars, regardless of what the egotistic old grouch tried to insist.

I shove those thoughts aside. It's a niche item, which I love. I got to go shopping, which I love, always. It's viola compositions, which I love... sometimes. And it's about time that I navigate a new musical adventure.