Anita danced in her chair, swaying in time with the music, drawing her bow across her strings, pulling forth a deep, mournful tune. The concert was tomorrow and she needed to make sure she was as good as she could get. Besides, Phil was supposed to be there. She had to show him her best. He deserved no less than that. Especially since she didn't seem him all that often.

As a suit, he didn't really understand the joys of classical music, of the real Classical and Romantic periods, of Baroque and Renaissance. So, she tried to expose him to the beauty she saw in it every visit and allowed him to show her a part of his life as well.

Her roommate had come in earlier, screaming something about an alien attack on the other side of the Nation. She didn't believe it until she was shoved in front of the television. Then she turned into an automaton.

Yes, she was afraid. Yes, she was concerned. They'd make their way across the United States, wouldn't they?

That's why she was currently in her room, playing. It took her away, took away the sorrows and panic, left her feeling lighter and freer, kept her away from breaking down, from worrying. Phil worked on the East Coast. She prayed he was safe.

Numbly, she went on through Holst's Jupiter and Bach's Suite for Solo Cello No. 1 in G Major. They were beautiful, full and glorious.

"Anita, someone at the door for you," her roommate said, peeking her head through the door.

Anita carefully set down her instrument and brushed her hands against her pants, trying to rid her fingers of rosin, a useless gesture but something to keep her busy. Looking at her friend's face, a face desperately trying to hide panic, she tilted her head.

"Who is it?"

The other girl shook her head and bolted away, leaving her with a sense of curiosity and dread.

The front door was ajar and she couldn't see much, just the barest sliver of red. Her hand was shaking, blood rushing from her face. She couldn't tell why, but the dread was piling up, threatening to overtake her. Something was wrong.

Pulling open the door, she was met with the faces of seven battered people, the most recognizable at the head of the group, Tony Stark.

"May I help you?" Anita asked, confused.

"Miss, I'm sorry for your loss," Mr. Stark said, solemnly, handing her a stack of old cards, Captain America cards.

Cards that fell through her fingers


May the souls of the fallen rest in peace. 5/28/2012 Memorial Day