Jason Wilde's office wasn't much —bare brick walls, dim lighting, and just enough room for stacks of aging vinyl and a pair of speakers that looked like they belonged in a museum. The centerpiece was an old turntable, its edges scuffed from decades of use.
Lex leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching as Jason thumbed through a pile of records. He handled them with care, like each was a fragile relic pulled from some long-lost archive.
Jason held one up, squinting at the faded label. "The Raven Boys – Highway Sin (1976)."
He smirked, tossing it onto a growing stack on the table. "Ever heard of them?"
Lex didn't blink. "No."
"Exactly." Jason grinned, his excitement bubbling just beneath the surface. "Neither has anyone under the age of fifty. And yet, here we are—four hundred tracks deep in Marcus's stash of forgotten gems."
Lex arched a brow, stepping closer. "Four hundred?"
Jason spread his arms dramatically, a kid showing off his treasure chest. "Four hundred, Lex. Marcus hoarded this stuff like it was the Holy Grail. One-hit wonders, demo tapes, bands who folded before their first tour. Marcus didn't just collect records—he collected ghosts."
Lex reached out, his hand brushing over the nearest stack. The scent of aged paper and vinyl wafted up—a bottled nostalgia that could almost pull you into another time.
"Any of them worth listening to?" Lex asked, his tone casual, but his mind already turning.
Jason chuckled darkly.
"That's the thing. Most of these bands burned out after one song. The rest barely made it out of their garages. But the hits…" He tapped the top record on the pile. "Pure lightning in a bottle. Some of these tracks could break charts today if someone dusted them off."
Lex's eyes narrowed slightly. "You're sure?"
Jason didn't answer. Instead, he slid a record onto the turntable.
A soft crackle filled the room, followed by a haunting bassline. It was gritty, unapologetically raw. Then came the vocals—a smoky, soulful voice that pulled you in and refused to let go.
Lex exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the vinyl sleeve beside him. It wasn't just good. It was electric.
Jason leaned back, arms folded smugly. "Tell me that doesn't hit."
"It does," Lex admitted, his gaze sharp. "What's the track?"
Jason glanced at the label. "Lola Grey – 'Heart Made of Stone.' 1982. Released by some no-name label that went under six months later. Got regional airplay for about three weeks, then vanished."
Lex's mind raced. Four hundred tracks. Four hundred artists no one remembered, but whose music still carried weight.
He smirked faintly. "So… what if we bring them back?"
Jason laughed. "Bring them back? Lex, these artists are either retired or dead. What are you planning—a séance?"
Lex shook his head. "Not the artists. The songs."
Jason's smirk faded as realization dawned. "You're serious."
"Dead serious." Lex glanced at the stack again, the gears in his head spinning. "We've got talent everywhere looking for breakout tracks. New singers, indie bands—they need hits, and we've got four hundred just sitting here."
Jason let out a low whistle. "You want to recycle one-hit wonders?"
"No," Lex said, his smirk growing. "I want to repackage lightning. Take the best tracks, clean them up, and license them to new talent under my label with a full album."
Jason stared at him, then let out a short laugh. "Man, you're insane. You know nostalgia's a risky game, right? People get weird about old music."
Lex picked up the record sleeve, turning it over in his hands. "Nostalgia sells, Jason. And when it doesn't? It fades quietly, just like it already did. But if it works…" He looked up, his eyes gleaming. "It'll hit harder and stay."
Jason studied him for a long beat, then shrugged, his grin returning. "Alright. I'll start digitizing. But you'd better find some talent fast. If you sit on this too long, the ghosts'll get restless."
Lex chuckled. "Already working on it."
Jason gave him a mock salute. "Anything else, boss?"
Lex nodded. "Yeah. Find out if Everett's estate stop shopping around. If they are serious, I want in."
Jason arched a brow but didn't argue. "I'll dig around. And Lex…" He tapped the edge of the turntable. "You'd better come up with a killer plan for these tracks, or we're just two idiots playing DJ in a basement."
Lex smirked. "Trust me, Jason. I've got this."
The Echoes of Gold
After Jason left, Lex lingered in the studio. He slid another record from the pile, tracing the edge of the sleeve with his fingertips.
Barnie wouldn't touch something like this. It was too small, too messy, too easy to overlook.
But that was the beauty of it. Music lingered. It slipped into scenes, shaped emotions, and stayed with people long after the credits rolled.
Barnie built glass towers.
Lex?
He built echoes.
Barnie could keep his boardrooms and skyscrapers.
Lex was turning forgotten ghosts into a legacy.