Chapter:1
It had been exactly one year since Erik had lost his beloved Christine. He made his incredible escape from the burning Opera Popular on that night. His delicate heart had never recovered from loosing her. He took up refuge in Madam Giry's flat, and every night, for six months, he would cry himself to sleep. Everyday he would begin to compose his new masterpiece. This new composure indeed reflected on his emotion. But even the strong comfort of music couldn't take away the pain of loosing Christine. Erik slowly just started to give up on his music. He would only sit, and stare at all of the happy couples out the window. Madame Giry cared for his poor soul, and hid him from the entire outside world yet again.
The night Raoul whisked Christine away; they immediately fled France, and headed to New York. And now, one year later Christine sat in her bedroom, revisiting those long forgotten memories. She thought of the terror that Erik had filled her with. The first time seeing his whole face. She sat, and thought, she thought about him, where was he? Was he alright? Was poor Erik alive? Deep down, she felt horrible about leaving him alone on that night. She would now always question herself if she was honestly happy with the Vecomt de Chagney. Raoul was always gone, working, or out with the other men drinking. He hardly ever saw her anymore. Christine still had no doubt that he loved her, and she loved him, but she just wished they would spend more time together. She let out an extended sigh, and walked toward her dresser. It was filled with many expensive clothes, and on top of the dresser was her jewelry box that Raoul had brought home to her one night. She took the box off the dresser and opened it up. She looked at all the nice expensive items inside; she ran her fingers over the soft red velvet lining. She never really cared so deeply for the exquisite clothes, jewelry, and expensive artistic pieces like all of the other women. Her thoughts gradually returned to Erik. She sat down at the table and began to write the letter.
Raoul sat in his chair talking to the fellow men about business. It was getting dark and people we starting to evacuate the building. He has been invited out drinking with the other gentlemen. He wanted to see his beautiful Christine; he hadn't seen her for two weeks. His job caused him to be away from her for days, weeks, or even months at a time. Even when he returned it might not have been only but a few days before he had to leave again. Ever since they had arrived in America, Raoul had wanted to have a child. Christine would only reply, I just do not think the time is right. Every time she would say that Raoul would just storm out and not return until morning. When he would return home, he would find her asleep on her bed with the residue of dry tears all over her perfect, angelic face. He never wanted to hurt her; he did love her more than anything world. And he showed his love for her by buying her expensive items, for he couldn't always be there in the flesh for her. But Raoul thought that one more night away couldn't possibly be all that bad. So he went with the other men, drank brandy, and smoked the finest cigars.
When Raoul unlocked the door of his and Christine's large flat, he expected to see her beautiful body rush towards him, kiss him, and welcome him home. But all he found was empty rooms, and a letter on the table starting with, Dear my darling Raoul.