André Aciman

Not a sound could be heard on the empty road except a faraway dog and the rickety squeaks of our carriage, whose horse, for some unknown reason, knew Brahms horn trio well enough to let his leisurely footfalls stamp to the rhythm of the music.

To be dead meant that others could come into your room and never know it had once been yours. Little by little they would remove all traces of you. Even your smell would go. Then they'd even forget you had died.
-André Aciman, from Out Of Egypt