Under a flickering streetlamp, the dead musicians gathered in an abandoned warehouse. Elvis, his hair a patchwork of cobwebs, sat silently beside ghostly Kurt, whose eyes burned with quiet despair. Amy, pale and trembling, clutched a wilted rose while Jimi’s phantom fingers caressed a broken guitar. They formed a support circle, sharing haunted whispers of lost fame and eternal isolation. A newcomer arrived, dragging a shattered saxophone, his spirit ragged and wounded. In that eerie assembly, sorrow echoed through spectral chords, each note a reminder of mortality. Their meeting was both requiem and lifeline in the realm of the damned.