The year was 1990, and the Glasgow rain was doing its best to turn the world into a watercolor painting. Inside a cramped basement flat, Elias sat on the floor, surrounded by a sea of vinyl records and a haze of incense. He wasn’t interested in the heavy thud of the techno scene or the aggressive snarl of the dying punk era. He was looking for something that felt like the morning after a long night—fragile, bright, and a little bit hazy.
By the time the final notes faded into a gentle hum, the rain outside had stopped. The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was full of the song's residual warmth. Elias realized he didn't need to follow Clara to London to feel close to her. He just needed to keep the record spinning. He flipped the disc, ready to let the softness take over once more. Soup Dragons - Soft as your face
He grabbed a notebook and started to write, his pen moving in sync with the jangle of the guitar. He wrote about the "velvet sky" and "petals in the wind," words that felt silly in the daylight but profound in the amber glow of his lamp. The song bridged the gap between the psychedelic 60s and the baggy 90s, making Elias feel like he was floating between decades. The year was 1990, and the Glasgow rain
He dropped the needle on Love: Enforce , and "Soft as Your Face" filled the room. He was looking for something that felt like
As the strings swelled, Elias closed his eyes. The song wasn’t just a melody; it was a physical sensation. It felt like the velvet of her vintage coat and the way her breath hitched when she laughed. The Soup Dragons were singing about a softness that felt dangerous—the kind of vulnerability that could break a man if he leaned into it too hard.
The acoustic guitar shimmered like light hitting a puddle. It was a sound that didn't belong in a gritty city, but it was exactly what Elias needed. He thought of Clara. She had left for London three weeks ago, leaving behind nothing but a scent of vanilla and a stack of postcards she’d never mailed.