Black rain on call One secret

épisode 8 the key at old street

The collection of books sat untouched on the wooden shelf, exactly as she had arranged them years ago. I had never dared to change their order—not once. It felt sacred, almost like disturbing them would erase the last traces of her presence in my life.

Yet something was wrong.

I noticed it the moment my eyes scanned the familiar spines. The sixth book stood where the third should have been. The ninth had taken the sixth’s place. And the third… rested exactly where the ninth once belonged.

A chill crawled slowly down my spine.

I stepped closer, my fingers hovering over the worn covers as if they might burn me. Carefully, I examined the pattern again, making sure it wasn’t my imagination.

Six… nine… three.

The sequence formed the number 693.

My pulse quickened. The number wasn’t random. I had seen it before—etched among strange symbols on a small white sheet of paper she had left behind shortly before she vanished.

I rushed to my desk and unfolded the fragile paper, my hands trembling slightly as I studied it again. The number 693 appeared clearly, but each digit had a smaller number written beside it.

Next to the number 6 was a tiny 4.

Beside the 9 stood a 1.

And next to the 3… a 5.

At first, I assumed they referred to page numbers.

The theory felt logical enough. I grabbed the third book and flipped to page four, scanning every line. Nothing unusual. No markings. No hidden messages. Just ordinary text staring back at me with silent indifference.

My frustration grew.

I quickly checked page one of the ninth book… then page five of the sixth. Still nothing.

I exhaled sharply, running my fingers through my hair as doubt crept into my mind. Had I misunderstood her message? Had I been chasing ghosts created by my own desperation to find her?

Then an idea struck me.

It came suddenly—like a whisper from memory.

I placed the three books side by side on the desk and stared at their titles. My breath slowed as realization dawned.

The smaller numbers weren’t referring to pages.

They referred to words inside each title.

My heart began pounding louder with every second. I carefully counted the words.

From the third book, I extracted the fourth word.

From the ninth book, I took the first.

From the sixth book, I pulled the fifth.

I wrote them down slowly, my hand shaking as the phrase formed before my eyes.

50 Old Street.

The room seemed to spin slightly around me.

Only she and I knew that phrase.

Years ago, when life was simpler and danger was nothing more than a distant rumor, we used to walk through a narrow street hidden deep within the old district of the city. It was an avenue trapped in time—lined with antique shops, dusty windows, and relics from forgotten decades. There were no modern advertisements. No glowing screens. No public telephones.

Just history… frozen in silence.

We had given it a name of our own.

Old Street.

By the time the clock struck noon, I found myself standing at the entrance of that very place. The street looked exactly as I remembered it. The same cracked stone pavement. The same faded shop signs hanging crookedly above ancient doorways. Even the air carried the scent of aged wood and rusted metal.

But there was one problem.

There was no Building 50.

I walked slowly along the street, scanning every number plate, every entrance, every shadowed corner. Confusion tightened inside my chest.

Then my eyes landed on a small storefront tucked between two abandoned shops.

The sign above it read:

“Fifties Stars.”

A strange pull tugged at me, as if invisible threads were guiding my steps. I hesitated only for a moment before pushing the door open.

A soft bell chimed as I stepped inside.

The shop felt like stepping into another century. Wooden crates overflowed with vintage phonograph records, their covers worn yet carefully preserved. Glass cabinets displayed rare albums arranged with obsessive precision. Dust floated gently in the dim light like drifting memories.

I moved deeper into the shop, my fingertips brushing lightly across the covers. Names I had only heard in my grandparents’ stories stared back at me.

“Don’t Start Me Talkin’” by Sonny Boy Williamson.

“You Send Me” by Sam Cooke.

“My Baby Just Cares for Me” by Nina Simone.

“Your Cheatin’ Heart” by Hank Williams.

Rock and roll. Blues. Country. Each record seemed to whisper fragments of forgotten emotions. A soft melody drifted through the shop, unfamiliar yet hauntingly beautiful, wrapping around me like a distant echo from another life.

I barely noticed how much time had passed until movement stirred near the back of the store.

An elderly woman emerged slowly from behind a tower of boxes. She looked fragile, yet her eyes held a sharpness that made me uneasy. Deep wrinkles framed her face, and her silver hair was tied neatly behind her head.

She studied me for a long moment before speaking.

“Who are you?” she asked quietly.

“My friend… gave me this address,” I replied, unsure why my voice sounded heavier than usual.

A faint smile touched her lips, as if she had expected those exact words.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

My stomach tightened.

She disappeared behind a curtain at the back of the shop, leaving me standing alone with the ghostly music. Every instinct inside me screamed that I was stepping deeper into something I could no longer control.

Moments later, she returned holding a vinyl record with both hands, treating it with almost ceremonial care.

“The Penguins,” she said, handing it to me. “Earth Angel.”

I accepted the record slowly. Its surface reflected the dim light, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, it felt heavier than it should have.

“Your friend bought this two months ago,” the woman continued. “She asked me to keep it safe… until you came.”

Two months.

The timeline struck me like a blade. That meant she had been planning this long before she disappeared.

“Did she say anything else?” I asked quickly.

The old woman hesitated. For a moment, her expression darkened, as if she were weighing whether I deserved the truth.

“She never wanted to involve you,” she finally said. “But she told me one thing… you are the only person she trusts.”

The words tightened around my chest like invisible chains.

I turned toward the door, unsure whether I felt honored… or terrified.

Just as I reached the exit, her voice stopped me.

“You should know something.”

I looked back.

“All I know,” she said softly, “is that following this path will put you in danger.”

Silence swallowed the room. Even the music seemed to fade beneath the weight of her warning.

Fear curled deep inside me, sharp and cold.

But it wasn’t unfamiliar.

I had felt it growing since the moment I started searching for the ambassador’s daughter… since the moment I refused to let her disappearance become another unsolved mystery buried by silence.

I nodded silently, thanking the woman before stepping outside.

The afternoon light struck my eyes as I clutched the record tightly against my chest. The street buzzed faintly with distant city sounds, yet everything felt strangely muted—like the world itself was holding its breath.

I didn’t know what secrets were hidden inside this fragile piece of music.

But I could feel it.

I was closer than ever to uncovering something enormous.

And somehow… this record was the key.