On iPhone and iPad

You move between rooms by pushing the store sideways. The photograph tracks your finger exactly — not a page turning, not a swipe that fires an animation, but one continuous room going past at the speed you push it. Take your finger off halfway and it's halfway. The room names at the top do the same walk on their own if you'd rather be carried.

And one record can be handled three ways, without you having to choose which gesture you're making.

Swipe and the top record goes to the back — one card, like flicking through a bin.

Hold and the record gives you a glimpse: what's on it, the first few songs, a quiet note of how many more there are. It never scrolls and it never opens. Lift your finger and it's gone. It's the shop equivalent of tilting a sleeve out to read the back without taking it off the shelf.

Swipe and keep holding and the crate riffles — records going past under your thumb with a small tick for each one, the way a stack of sleeves clicks past your fingers. Let go and it settles.

Tap and the record comes up to you, seating softly rather than snapping open.

Pinch to bring a cover closer.

All of it is built for one hand, seated, not two hands at a desk — the test is an armchair.

There are three ways out of something, and they're three different distances.

The ✕ puts it back one step. From the printed notes to the back cover; from the back cover to the crate. It undoes the last thing you did rather than everything you did.

The house takes you back to the room — all the way out in one move, without walking back through the steps you came in by. It's for when you've gone three deep into a record and want to be standing on the floor again.

And you can always just push it away. Swipe it down, or tap the room behind it. Whichever you reach for, they all do exactly the same thing — there is no wrong one, and none of them does something subtly different from the others.

Nothing you close is remembered in a half-open state. Open it again and it's fresh.