She plays the violin with a skill and grace that virtuosos around the world would envy. Her fingers glide across the strings as the bow dances across their surfaces. She has never had an equal, and she never will.
The music fills the air. It is a song long forgotten, written by a person whose name has been lost and whose race has been forgotten. The notes call out to all that hear them, and they draw the listener in.
Music requires a soul to create art, and she does not have one. No matter. She’ll simply use yours.
There is a single grave beyond the field on a farm. Its tombstone is chipped and weathered, and it is tilted to one side from years of erosion. Old dried leaves and broken twigs litter the base. At one time there had been a name carved into the stone, but time has worn it away.
In front of the marker is freshly churned dirt and torn out grass. The grave has been opened. The area reeks of mold and decay.
The grave’s occupant is gone.
From the farmhouse comes a shrill scream.
The small flying insect lands on the back of the woman’s neck, and before she notices its presence it sinks its small pincers into her skin. She brushes it away in annoyance and continues working on the paper she is writing.
An hour later, she is standing over the lifeless body of her roommate. The letter opener is still clutched in her hand, and hot blood drips from her fingers. The rage had been so intense, and the whispers had grown so loud.
The insect is now in a room down the hall, and has landed on a man’s shoulder.