On a yellowed sheet of paper, he had written: Geraldo Azevedo – As Melhores.

He smiled, pushing the paper toward her. "I’m making a list. Geraldo Azevedo: as melhores. For my funeral."

She looked at the list. "But these are all... the best ones."

— and underneath, in smaller letters: Deixe tocar até o fim. (Let it play until the end.)

The man behind the counter at "Vinil & Verso" had eyes that looked like two worn-out 45s. He was old, maybe seventy, with a thin white beard and fingers stained by decades of ink and dust. His name was Tomás, and he was curating a very particular list.

A young woman entered the shop. She had headphones around her neck and a curious look.

Outside, the sun set over Recife. And somewhere, in a different decade, Geraldo Azevedo was still singing, still carrying every broken and beautiful heart along with him — as only the best ones do.