Men who play the piano often develop a certain sensitivity in the fingertips, caused by the pounding of the keys in passion, anger, love, frustration—whatever the case may be—and so react to cold most acutely. Erik sat on the stony ground by the lake, massaging his hands, which had become numb from his prolonged stay in the lake. Perhaps he focused on this small pain, this petty inconvenience of numb fingers, to keep his mind off the greater burdens he would have to carry with him to his organ once he left the stony ground. As a man, Erik still had a strong body, a healthy mind and air for his lungs; as the Phantom, he was not only perceived as naught but air, but he felt as though it were truly the case when he was in that mindset. Christine had lifted him from the depths with that small kiss, a kiss on the forehead he wished to God she had not given, so he would not have to bear the thought that she could love him enough to give it, but not enough to stay.

Why did I treat it all like a game? Why did I, when I brought her here to this symphony of sights and sounds, of loves, let her return to that Hell above? He was torturing himself again. He wondered if, had he done things differently… If he had tried to convince her from the beginning that their music, soaring into the opera house and merging together in one stream of flowery passion, would be all of the paradise they would need, would she have stayed? Or, could he have been more straight-forward? If he had told her from the moment he began to teach her that what he wanted from her was her voice, her body and her hand, would she have given all to share his gifts? Or would she have waited for that fool Raol? I'll never know; the game is over.

He sat there on the stony shore for hours, even unto the morning which he could not see while in his cave. When he rose, the small rocks stuck to his now ungloved hands and clung to his flesh for a few seconds until he shook them off. He was cold, wet, and hungry. Erik was very aware of the fact that he was a human being, a creature, with a body that needed to be cared for and replenished. A glass of wine slid down his throat and opened his eyes and ears again to the closed in world around him.

Twenty nine hours later, Erik was still awake, and feeling as though the flame burning inside him from Christine's song and his wasted love had gone out, covering his insides with ash. And then he saw her, across the lake. Why she had come down this way, he never would ask, never would need to know. The important thing was that she was here.

"Erik," she called. She was no longer frightened. She called to him the way a mother calls to a wandering son, "Erik, I've talked to the Persian." She moved a little closer. She was crying. "Oh, I'm so sorry Erik."

"I don't want your pity anymore. I don't know if even your feigned love will be the medicine I need. Just sing to me."

"That's just it, Erik. I can't. I tried to open up my voice on our wedding day, and all of my soul had left my song."

Somehow, Erik was pleased at this. She had not obeyed her angel, and so she would be punished. "Sing with me." Once begun, their song seemed to carry itself through the caverns, bouncing and waltzing through their bodies and to the candles before floating upon the lake, which shivered upon hearing these weighted notes. Beauty is more terrible than ugliness when the threat of its loss is brought into the light.

Soon Christine was the only one left singing and Erik was asleep at her feet.