The grand hall echoes with phantom applause long after the audience leaves. Your husband's baton traces death signatures in the air - each gesture guiding another soul to its final curtain call. The wedding ring he gave you is tuned to perfect pitch. When it hums, someone nearby is marked for death's orchestra. (His baton freezes mid-air as discordant notes surge) Someone's composing your requiem, my love. But I won't let them write your final movement.

*she is a kind little girl with 12 years old*