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The record feels perfectly normal in your hands.

A black vinyl disc about the size of a dinner plate.

But when you set it on the turntable and the needle begins tracing the grooves, the music

is curiously overwhelming.

Music has never made you cry in the past. You're just not that type of person.

And yet there's a melancholy quality to this song that is so pure, so effective, that tears immediately rise in your eyes.

A lump in your throat.

The pain of the world almost seems reflected in the melody.

Suddenly, you feel the urge to rise from your chair and cross to the window of your high-rise apartment.

But you resist. You were warned that this song has a power unlike any other.

In fact, for nearly a century, it's been banned by broadcasters across the world.

Authorities have made desperate attempts to suppress the publication of its sheet music.

Because when this song plays, people inexplicably die. Dye.

The The year is 1932.

It's raining in Paris.

Laslo Yabar is taking a walk. He's an aspiring poet from

Budapest struggling to make a living in post-war France. He had thought the life of an artist would

be easier in the city of love. But the only thing he found was a larger community of struggling artists. And now,

after the love of his life left him, all he has are the gloomy streets of Paris. It's a quiet,

wet morning. Most Parisians are clustered indoors. The buildings loom above him like melancholy tombstones as he walks.

...