The night was humid and heavy, even the sounds of the city seeming subdued by the heat wave that held Chicago in its smothering grasp. Rain streamed down from the summer sky, creating clouds of steam when it struck the scorched pavement. In a run-down part of town, far from the lights of Navy Pier and the cultivated prestige of Soldier Field and the museum campus, a lone figure walked through the rain.
Her comely figure indicated youth, though her features were concealed within the large hood of her coat. Long locks of silvery-blonde hair escaped the hood and hung down over her shoulders, nearly to her waist. Her movements were erratic, as if she were drunken or sick. She hummed a tune under her breath as her meandering steps carried her down a narrow alley. The notes of Chopin’s Funeral March resonated in the filthy shelter, frightening rats from their pursuits and sending them scattering before the woman.
As she approached the end of the alley, the humming turned to singing, words that Chopin had certainly never penned.
"Wake, all ye dead.
Wake, sacred dead.
Wake in his name and
The dead shall live again.
Wake, all ye dead.
Wake, sacred dead.
Wake in his name and
We shall ascend again."