It began with music.
No words: she could never concentrate on writing whenever someone spoke. It was a symphony, something by Beethoven that swooped through the air and fluttered in her ears.
Her back was to the living room, the study door open, and she typed away, inspired by the melody, focused on weaving together a story unlike anything she’d ever written before filled with tension and fire and a beat all its own.
A hand wrapped around her throat, yanked her out the chair, and dragged her into the next room.
Her eulogy began with music.
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