Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not, in fact own the Phantom of the Opera, or the music by Andrew Lloyd Webber. =[

However this story is all MINE! -mwahahahaha- And hugs for Suzette for being beta ^^

This story is for anyone else who thinks that the Phantom deserved a happy ending too.

~White Lily, Blue Ribbon~

The infamous Phantom of the Opera drew his thick, black cape tighter about his shoulders against the snow, his breath misting in the darkness, lit up by a flickering street lamp.

It was colder here, in London.

He clenched his teeth hard against the tears that threatened to slide down his face again, as he walked briskly down the ice crusted alleyways, his unseeing eyes fixed on the road ahead.

She was gone forever now.

She had made her choice, and it hadn't been him. She had chosen the handsome, if brainless, young aristocrat. She deserved him, the Phantom thought bitterly. Someone youthful and vibrant. Someone who could care for her every need, who could protect her and provide her with a home... and a family.

The Phantom almost choked in blinding fury at the thought. She deserved a secure life.

But he didn't deserve her.

He saw only her voice, that talentless vicomte. Her voice and her beauty. He didn't know her darkest fears. Her hopes and dreams. The words she whispered in her sleep. He only knew her voice. The voice of angels.

'The voice I gave her'

His fists clenched inside his gloves and he gritted his teeth tighter, stopping walking and gripping the frozen metal railing that fenced off one of the fine buildings of London's Opera Quarter. His vision swam as he steadied himself. He had been reflecting too long on his past mistakes, he needed to clear his head. Eventually his ragged breathing slowed and his eyes cleared of their burning tears.

That was the reason he had come to this sad, grey little country. To no longer burden her, but also, to free himself of her. He knew he would no longer be able to bear the sight of the Opera Populaire, or his dark realm underneath it. The echo of her memory would simply drive him insane.

He had had all of his possessions moved over from Paris a week before, even his organ. It had all been done covertly; the working men who had done the task were probably still unaware of their employer's identity.

When he reached the right address he stopped and surveyed it.

London's Royal Opera House was not as ornate as he was accustomed to, though it was elegant with it's soaring pillars and, indeed, charming in it's own right. He would map it out and discover it's secrets in the days that followed. Madame Giry had spoken of it's own set of secret access ways similar to that of the Paris Opera, that he would employ to his benefit. Unfortunately he was unaware of any caves underneath it, so he had instead found, with the help of Madame Giry, and bought for a wonderfully low price the derelict and no longer working clock tower that stood opposite the old opera house.

He surveyed the tower; it was fairly large and the hands of the huge clock face were stuck at ten minutes to two. He understood it had been deserted for many years now, and it's previous owner had only kept it for the forlorn hope that the land price might go up one day.

It was Gothic, he determined with his architect's eye, if a little simple for the style, and though not as secluded as his Paris home, would at least provide him with the darkness he so loved, as it had no windows.

The Opera Ghost entered by the side door- the only door, his travelling suitcase in hand. He soon found himself in a narrow passageway, that quickly became a narrow spiral stairway. He locked the door behind him and left the key on the dusty wooden sideboard, which also housed a vase of dead and crusty old roses.

A tiny frown came to his face as he surveyed them, running a gloved finger along the stem of one, causing a few petals to drift to the ground. He would replace these when he next had the chance. He saw behind the vase a small oil lamp, and picked it up. After searching his breast pocket for a match he managed to light the lamp, and it cast a soft yellow glow, throwing dark shadows against the close walls.

Turning swiftly away from the table, he ascended the small staircase, and found himself in a small, six walled room, one wall of which was taken up by the enormous, semi-transparent rear of the clock face, partially obscured by the motionless gears and machinery that would have once driven the mechanism.

Many of his possessions had already been arranged about the room, his organ backed against the clock face, and impressive and dramatic sight, he mused, lips forming for the first time in a month, into an approving smile.

His large bed stood in one corner, his oaken writing desk in another, and his wardrobe stood imperiously against one of the six walls. He noted the presence of a large fireplace at the very right of the room with satisfaction. As of yet, the room was sparsely furnished to his taste, but pushed to the left few walls were many crates of his candles, rich drapery and other pieces of furniture like his deep arm chairs and even his broken mirrors and other items of various nature that would make this empty room feel more like home.

Home.

He stood silently for a few moments, not even bothering to put down the lamp and his traveling valise, staring at the dusty wooden floor but seeing nothing. His mind filled only with images of Paris, of his opera house.

Of Christine.

At the thought of her name, the backs of his eyes pricked once again with hot tears, and instead of pushing them away as he usually did, he let all of his emotions come crashing down on himself, in a wave that left him, and his eyes, drained and dry. Eventually it passed, leaving in its place the feeling of calm exhaustion.

She was happy now.

The thought brought a tiny smile to his eyes. He threw off his coat, blew out the lamp, setting it on the floor and then lay wearily down on the bed, not even bothering to take of his mask.

"We all must learn to say goodbye."

Tomorrow he would begin the process all again,- the strange occurrences and supernatural seeming "accidents", then, these increasing in number and eventually leaving tokens at the scene – he would need to order new roses…

Eventually he would leave notes, signing them; "Opera Ghost" and after that, demand payment. Until then, he would live off of his last payment from the owners of the Populaire, which would sustain him for quite some time.

'We all must learn to say goodbye.'

The gentle rhythm and cadence of the words carried him off to sleep, and as he drifted off the beginnings of a new melody danced around his mind. Of perfect fourths and fifths, it soared and sighed wistfully, speaking of unanswered prayers and beautiful lies. Easing for now the aching loneliness that ruled the Phantom of the Opera's existence.