It was an ordinary afternoon, the kind where nostalgia unexpectedly grips you, urging you to sift through the relics of your past. I found myself gravitating towards my old dubstep record collection. Dusty, forgotten, but once the heart of many late-night sessions, these records were more than just music; they were memories pressed into vinyl.

As I flipped through the collection, reminiscing about the bass drops that once filled my room, my fingers stumbled upon something unexpectedly crisp amidst the rugged sleeves. To my surprise, it was a £20 note, neatly tucked away, perhaps by a version of me with intentions now lost to time.

This discovery, as trivial as it might seem, felt like uncovering a time capsule left by my younger self. It wasn't just about the money (though, admittedly, a welcome find); it was a reminder of a time when dubstep was my world. The intricate bass lines, the rhythmic wobbles, and the sheer energy of the genre were what I lived for.

Finding the £20 note felt like a nod from the past, a reminder that sometimes, the things we once loved still have small gifts to give us, long after we've moved on. It was a poignant moment of reflection, a blend of nostalgia and serendipity, all found within the grooves of my old dubstep records.

So, what did I do with the £20? I decided to keep the serendipity going. I purchased a new record, adding a new memory to my collection, a testament to the unexpected joys of revisiting the past. In a way, the cycle of music and memories continues, each beat a note in the melody of life's unexpected moments.