A/N: I saw Phantom on tour on Easter. It made this little idea that had been floating around in my head for years turn into this. Any and all mistakes are mine, as I did this at work and didn't feel like coercing someone into being a beta. I also apologize if this feels choppy. I started writing this without planning anything, really, and I knew if I put it aside, it would never be finished.

Thank you to Em for answering my frantic text messages.

I own nothing.

A small giggle escaped from the petite brunette as she raced down the hallway, a small child in one arm and several sheets of music in the other. "Come now, Christine, we must hide this from your father or we shall never see the sun again!"

"Do I hear my treasonous family? Or is this some trick of the wind?" The kind voice echoed down the hall.

"There's no one here but us dust mites!" called the brunette, her brown eyes shining with silent laughter.

"Ah, alas, I seem to have lost my music and my family!"

"We're here, papa!" called Christine, unable to hide her excitement as her father rounded the corner, his eyes closed.

"Is that you, little 'Lotte? I can't see you! Are you there, too, Charlotte? Where's our daughter? Have the dust mites taken her away?"

Charlotte set her daughter down, and the little girl raced towards her father. "I'm right in front of you, papa! And mama is-" She shrieked in innocent laughter as her father opened his eyes, grabbed the young girl and began to tickle her.

"I've found you, my little 'Lotte! And where is your mother?" Christine looked around confused. Her mother had been there seconds before. Gustave feigned a gasp. "You don't know where your mother is? But you're the miniature version of your mother! Surely you must know her whereabouts!"

"Why, I'm right here!" called Charlotte from the kitchen, "I've been here all day, I promise! Christine and I haven't seen any music, have we?" Christine clung to her father, shaking her head against his chest.

Gustave sighed and regarded his wife. "Well, I suppose this means that we must have a picnic!"

Charlotte reached over to the small table and grabbed a small basket. "My dearest Gustave, once again, I fear that I am far ahead of you."

The trio made their way to the grassy field behind their small house. Bright flowers dotted the field and birds sang merrily in the trees. As Christine attempted to spread a blanket over the soft grass, Gustave grabbed Charlotte's hand.

"Darling, I can't spend too long out here. I must perfect this song if I'm to-"

"Gustave," chided Charlotte, meeting his gaze, "you've been working on that song for the past four hours. I know you're stuck, and I know that you feel that you must be perfect or it's all in vain, but even your brilliant mind needs a rest now and again." She gently ran her lips over the callouses on his fingertips. "Besides, it's a beautiful summer day, and your music can wait. Summer, however, will not."

Gustave felt like her warm brown eyes could read his soul, healing any ache that may appear. He reached out to stroke the long brown curls in her hair, then traced his finger along the soft skin on her cheek. "My life will always be summer with you around."

Stomachs full, the small family relaxed in the grass, just enjoying each other's company. Gustave hummed a soft song to Christine, and Charlotte picked flowers. Suddenly, Gustave stopped humming and shot up. "That's it! I've got it! I've figured out the song!" He sprinted into the house, singing at the top of his lungs.

Christine dissolved into laughter as Charlotte shook her head in amusement. Her husband was so passionate sometimes that she felt like he was married to her and his music. Just as she was about to fetch him, he emerged from the house, happiness radiating from his soul. He rushed to his family, and did a small happy dance with Christine. After he was done, he approached his wife.

"I told you that summer air would help clear the cobwebs from your head."

Gustave laughed and kissed Charlotte's hand. "Truly, you are my angel of music." He reached over and rubbed Christine's head, sending her brown curls flying in every direction. "And you! How old are you now, my little 'Lotte?" Christine held up her right hand, a proud smile on her face. "Five?! Surely you aren't five! Why, you can't possibly be an old woman just yet? I've wasted my life away on my music!" Christine giggled as her father picked her up and spun her around, the warm summer air smelling of flowers, and happiness, and love.

Charlotte died in her sleep a year later. Christine would only remember a warm smile and a melodic laugh, but Gustave never was quite the same. His features would always be full of laughter and warmth, but there was a sadness underneath that followed him daily.

"Papa!" cried Christine as she rushed to her father's bedside. His skin had lost most of its color, and looked pale and sickly, even in the warm glow of the candles on his table.

"Charlotte?" his eyelids fluttered as he tried to focus.

Christine's voice seemed to get caught in her throat. "I- She- No, papa. It's me, Christine. Little 'Lotte."

Gustave's green eyes focused on his teenaged daughter. "Christine, my apologies." He grimaced as he tried to sit up.

"Ahem." Madame Giry cleared her throat from the doorway.

"Oh, you," Gustave said with a small smile. "You may intimidate your ballerinas, but musicians are of a stronger caliber." He winked at his daughter as Madame Giry rolled her eyes in exasperation and melted back into the shadows.

Christine was too distraught to force a smile at the exchange. "Papa," she choked out through tears, "the doctor said that you might not make it through the night."

Gustave gestured for Christine to join him on the bed. She climbed up, careful not to hurt him, and curled up next to him. "My dear child. Death is nothing to mourn or fear. Death is but my next great song to sing." He wrapped his arms around her tiny frame. "Besides, when I am in heaven, child, I shall send you the angel of music, and she shall take you under her wing. The songs that you hear and create will hold me close to you, and I shall never be truly gone."

Christine laid next to him, listening to his heartbeat, until there was no more.

There were no more summer breezes, or flowers on a hill. Every season felt like winter without her father. All of the happiness and love had been sucked out of her, and with it, her music.

She tried to focus on her ballet, but her feet were clumsy, and she was constantly scolded for being off beat. Music didn't sound as beautiful, and she found no joy in dancing or singing when she had some downtime. She would lay awake at night, listening to the soft breathing of the other ballet girls, and wondering if she would ever learn to live again. That is, until the music found her in the form of her own dark angel of music.

Christine knelt in the snowy cemetery, staring at her father's gravestone and waiting for an answer. Her father would know what to do. He always knew what to do.

"Papa," Christine whispered, running her hand over the cold, smooth stone, "I don't know what to do. I'm frightened. I need you more than ever." Tears began to run down her cheeks, and she brushed them away before they began to freeze. She stood and attempted to brush the snow off her cloak. She had been kneeling there longer than she thought, and the snow refused to come off.

Some things were meant to cling. Perhaps she wasn't, but that didn't mean that it was easy to let go.