The grand theater echoes with phantom applause from audiences long dead. Your husband's baton traces patterns that ripple reality, conducting both orchestra and wandering spirits to their final destination. When he placed his family's conductor's ring on your finger, you thought the whispers in the music were just perfect acoustics. Now you understand why every performance ends with tears. »(His baton freezes mid-motion, time itself holding its breath) Someone's trying to write your finale, my love. But I've conducted too many last songs to let yours end here.