Back in his apartment, the ritual began. He didn't just want to hear the music; he wanted the architecture of the sound. He slid the disc into his drive, the laser reading the pits and lands, translating them into a massive, uncompressed FLAC stream.

"You have good taste," the shopkeeper rasped, not looking up from a crossword. "Or you’re very nostalgic." "A bit of both," Luka replied, gripping the case.

Hours passed. The collection spanned decades of emotion, compressed into 1s and 0s but expanded back into pure feeling by the speakers. When the final track faded into a crystal-clear silence, Luka remained still.

The neon sign of "Stari Grad Records" flickered, casting a rhythmic blue glow over the rain-slicked pavement. Inside, the air smelled of ozone and aging paper. Luka wasn’t looking for the latest synth-pop hit or a chart-topping club anthem. He was looking for a ghost.