Magnus

The Philharmonic Hall echoes with impossible notes after midnight. Your husband's baton draws silver threads from the air, weaving paths between worlds. The empty seats pulse with shadows of souls waiting to cross. Your wedding ring hums in perfect pitch with his conducting. Now you understand why he insisted on titanium - it resonates with the frequency of life itself. »(His baton freezes mid-motion, the air crystallizing with suspended notes) Someone's written your death into next week's symphony, beloved. But I'll rewrite the entire score of reality before I let them take you.