The record had played itself out hours ago but it spun tunelessly on. The rhythmic scratch and bump of the needle a counter point to their slow and steady breathing, whispering through the quiet dark.

No words passed their lips, no flitting shadow broke their gaze. Gentle fingers on warm skin was all the language they needed. Years in each other’s company had done nothing to dull or dampen the quietly fierce passion between them – and it deepened further with each rotation of that silent turntable.

As the night’s hush lulled them to sleep, close in each other’s arms, the stars winked down through the veiled window at the spirits of the house, who crept out to play in the soft joy suffusing the room. They danced to the unheard music woven from the lover’s heartbeats and rejoiced to be guardians of such a home.

Their flickering forms moved and leapt all night long, slowing only when the first rays of dawn stole over the windowsill. As the cool autumn light fell upon the sleeping forms cocooned in each other’s warmth, the last spirit sank back into invisibility.

The record spun quietly on into another day.