This is a Post-Kay one shot, the concept of which has been bouncing around in my head for a while. I'm aware it's a little random and messy, but... such is life.
This is also the first Phantom fanfic I've ever posted, as well as the first fanfic in general that I've posted in more than three and a half years, so hey... it's an accomplishment on my end.

"Allow me to assist you, Mlle Bernard," my young student said politely, taking my arm. His head barely came to my elbow, and besides that, I was perfectly capable of crossing the room by myself… but I allowed him his little act of chivalry that his parents would surely commend him on. It seemed that children had worse manners every time you turned around, so this little gentleman's actions seemed quite sweet.

"Thank you, Pierre," I said, "That is very kind of you."

It is indeed a funny thing to live your life with something holding you back – in my case, a cane and very little recollection of the first seven years of my life – and no explanation why. I was not born with a bad leg, that much I know, but my parents will not tell me why. If I ask my mother, she only responds in clipped tones, telling me that I fell as a child and that I am absolutely not to remind my father of the incident. I know that I hit my head as well, which accounts for my lost memory. The doctors say it's a miracle that I retained no other damage, mental or otherwise. As a few things resurfaced – things such as the births of my younger siblings and moments with my parents along with the simple knowledge of their identities – strange things came as well… or, more accurately, one strange thing.

I thought that I remembered a frightening gentleman, clothed all in black, visiting my home in the dead of the night. He spoke in a hypnotic voice that made me think he couldn't be a human like my family and I, and wore a mask that covered his entire face. I would be watching from the foot of the stairs or from behind a door, having left my bed, and I would watch as my father suddenly became very frightened and complacent. There were a few memories like this one… but they simply didn't fit. My parents never spoke of this man. He had no logical place in my world. I concluded that I must have imagined him, and so I told no one.

In my youth, I was unable to run and play with my eight brothers and sisters. It was all I could do to limp over to my family's little piano to amuse myself, and from this I developed a love for music. This led to violin and voice lessons. I never knew how my parents were able to afford this, but by the time I was old enough to realize I already knew not to ask such questions. They would only earn me a glare and an order (From my mother, of course, never from Father...) to be silent.

I had always hoped for a career onstage, but as I grew up I realized this impossible. What opera house wanted a lame diva? I was nearly sixteen when I finally stopped fooling myself, and went crying to my father.

"It's not fair," I sobbed as he patted my head, listening in a way my mother could not, "I could be the greatest musician to live, but I would still be a musician with a cane!"

"Hush now," Father said gently, "I once…" but he stopped. I know not what he was going to say.

And so I began teaching music to children, and stuck with it. I did love it, although it wasn't my first choice of career. Having just finished Pierre's first violin lesson, I spoke briefly with his mother and walked out onto a tiny landing. They lived on the second floor of a building, and the steep stairs had been a cause of some exertion for me.

Standing at the top of the stairs, a sudden anxiety gripped me for a moment. I did not know why… I had descended stairs before. They were not simple, but no cause for fear. In this moment, however, it was as though I could see a scene playing out in front of my eyes. I knew – I don't know why now, why it had taken twenty six years for this revelation – that when I had my accident as a child, it had been down a flight of stairs. Not unusual, I told myself, and it made sense. I would've have sustained permanent damage from simply tripping over my own feet. Swallowing my irrational anxiety, I moved onwards.

As I began to make my slow way down the stairs, another memory leaked into the open. Lying at the foot of the stairs, my leg bent strangely and my breath gone from my lungs… the world seemed blurry and strange, though I don't know if that was my head injury or simply the years that have passed. And my mother picking me up, insisting that I was alright. Insisting? To whom-

These revelations had completely preoccupied me, and I absently missed a stair with my cane. There were only a few left before I reached the street, but I felt the panic as acutely as I am sure I did that night twenty-six years ago. As I landed on my good knee and side, a few passers-by gasped and slowed their pace long enough to see if I recovered. It took me a moment to realize there was no pain… it hadn't been a far fall, and I hadn't hurt myself. Once I exhaled and began to try to struggle to my feet, they moved on. If I had been terribly hurt, then there may have been some obligation to assist me, but the simple chore of helping a cripple to her feet? Not a pressing concern.

"May I help you, Madame?" A young man's voice asked, sounding very much the child version of something I knew from long ago. I looked up, expecting to see someone familiar, but the handsome young man was not anyone I recognized. All the same, the leak of memories in my mind burst a little bit – the last time I lay at the bottom of a stairwell…

"Madame, that child is injured. Let me look at her."

I looked up at the young man's kind expression. Slowly, he offered his hand.

In my mind my mother was refusing. Cradling me to her chest, making the white hot pain in my leg worsen.

"Stay away from her! Don't touch her!"

I accepted his help, my right hand shaking as I gripped my cane.

My father fearfully argued with my mother, begging for her to be silent. My brothers and sisters were all crying now, not knowing what was happening.

And then my memory was full of the tall man that I thought I'd invented. More clearly than I'd ever seen him, his expressionless white mask looked down at me, and the strangest eyes I had ever seen were golden and glowing behind it. He reached out a hand, but -

"You won't buy my children as you have bought my husband!" my mother yelled, and my foot hit the door frame as she backed up. It sent a jolt of pain up my leg, but I couldn't even manage to cry out.

"Do you hear me? Don't ever come back here again!"

I now stood, with shaky legs, in front of the young man kind enough to help me.

"I hope it was not too forward of me to help you," he said, "But I saw you fall…"

Despite my sibling's cries, I could still hear the man's otherworldly voice in the basement with my father.

"Get that child to a doctor quickly."

But it was three days before they did.

"… Will you be alright?"

Suddenly in the present, I scrutinized the young man. A twenty-six year old memory is not the greatest reference for anything. This boy was seventeen or eighteen at the most, and a handsome face that needed not to be hidden. But he had eyes that, if one was looking for it, might be on the yellow side of amber. He was tall, and the hand that he had helped me up with had been unmistakeably that of a musician… not unlike the hand that, twenty-six years ago, had reached out to help before my mother snatched me away. These were not good points of comparison, I knew, but God help me… his voice. It was on my mind and out of my mouth before I could help it.

"You're English?" I asked him, not sure if I wanted to be right or wrong. He smiled.

"I was only raised in England."

"Your parents?"

"My mother was Swedish, and-"

"Your father was French," I finished for him, feeling stranger than I had ever felt, "I… knew him. I believe he knew my father, to be more precise."

"Oh?" he asked good naturedly, "We've met? Forgive me, I-"

"No, we've not met," I corrected him, "I just… your voice, and eyes, and even your hands… are very much like him."

"No," he said sadly, "I'm afraid, then, that you're mistaken. I do not resemble my father in those ways."

"Of course," I said, feeling incredibly foolish, "It was a silly notion. I haven't seen the man I was thinking of in a very long time. Forgive me."

"No bother. I say, though – is that a violin?" He indicated the case in my left hand which I had somehow managed to hold onto as I fell. They say that some musicians treat their instruments like children, and they are right. I would have injured my other leg before letting my violin fall.

"Yes," I answered brightly, glad that he wasn't entirely convinced I was mad, "I teach children to play."

"Brilliant," he said, "I play as well, and sing a bit… but I must say that the piano is my favourite."

"A boy after my own heart!" I laughed, "A violinist, singer, and pianist! I wanted to sing on the stage as a girl, but…" I gestured to my cane. He nodded sympathetically.

"I've often wanted to pursue that life myself, but…" he lowered his voice, "My mother was a singer briefly, here in Paris… upon her death I began to wonder if it would not be too painful for my father to have me in the same profession. Old memories and whatnot."

I smiled. A very thoughtful son. No doubt, though, that his father would love to see him excel.

"Your mother was a singer in Paris?" I then asked, not quite willing to believe that she had been in the opera. Not as a star, in any case, although –

"Yes, at the Garnier," he said brightly, "I was just there for the first time last night, as a matter of fact. Her name was Christine de Chagny… although she was Christine Daaé while she sang, I suppose."

My mind suddenly went reeling. Christine Daaé… I remembered that name. I was so jealous of that girl… she found success around the same time that I was resigning myself to teaching.

And then, she had been performing in Faust the night that the chandelier fell. I remembered it well, come to think of it… I wasn't there, of course, but everyone heard of it.

"I remember her," I said absently, thinking how strange it was that I should run into this young man, of all people, thinking he was the son of a strange spectre of my childhood… only for him to be the son of a previous object of my jealousy.

"Do you really? That's simply – Oh! Here is my father!" I turned and looked behind me. A golden haired man who looked only to be a few years older than me approached us. As he drew nearer, however, there seemed to be increased age in his face. Perhaps this boy was right in protecting his father from grief - he had the look of someone who had already been through much.

"Father! You must meet-" He looked at me for my name. I curtseyed.

"Mlle Marie Bernard," I said, "I am pleased to meet you."

"Mlle Bernard thought I was someone else at first, but we've discovered we have a mutual interest in music… and she remembers mother from Paris!"

"Is that so?" the man asked, "It seems so very long ago now."

"I recall the night that the chandelier crashed," I said gravely, "And your wife was performing. I'm sure that was very trying for you."

The man blanched noticeably. I was worried for a moment before he finally spoke.

"Yes," he said, "Trying- I'm sorry. I'd rather… that is to say, we never spoke… it's not something-"

"Of course," I said hurriedly, "Forgive me. I… understand that you are living in England? That must be difficult for one born in France."

"Yes," he said, trying to regain some composure, "I quite miss the country now and again."

"Mlle Bernard immediately knew my father was French," the boy said, "Although it turns out she thought of someone else. Strange, isn't it? How we've ended up having a lovely conversation from a mistake."

"Strange indeed, Charles," his father responded, once again taking on a pale hue. I laughed, wanting to lighten the man's strangely anxious mood.

"As a matter of fact, your son assisted me. I had fallen down – as you can see, stairs are not kind to me – and I was reminded of a man I once knew. He…" From the leak I began to pull tiny bits of information. Just as I had eventually been able to remember my sibling's birthdays, I was remembering details about this man - now that I was no longer afraid of his presence in my mind indicating that I was mad. "He was a genius, I think… he worked with my father... mainly over architecture, but I believe he was a musician as well… and... he could do magic. Yes, I'm certain he was a magician…" I stopped, letting the memories sit in my head for a moment. There was something there. Something I should… and then it could not have been clearer if someone had written it out.

"His name was Erik."

If I had thought that the man looked pale at the mention of his wife, I had been proven wrong. He looked as grey and still as though he had died on the spot. I did not know how to respond, but Charles evidently did.

"I say! That's marvellous – I believe that my mother knew this man as well! Just last night – do you remember, father? You told me about this man just last night! That he and mother knew each other quite well. This is…" he laughed, looking elated, "How strange and lucky that we've met you, Mlle Bernard!"

It was like the sliding into place of many puzzle pieces in my mind. Somehow, though, the look of terrible revelation never came over the boy's face. Blessed, blessed naivety, I thought… one day he would look back on this chance encounter, and think of how a strange woman had immediately likened him to a friend of his mother's, of whom his father wished never to speak… and I felt the need to repair what had already been done.

"I am sure I am mistaken," said with a shaky voice, feeling that there were tears in my eyes, "I never saw this man's face, I must admit, and so I cannot be one to make comparisons…"

The father shook his head slightly at me, offering a sad smile. Charles did not see this. Lord have mercy on them both… I had fallen down the stairs and into the middle of something so horribly tragic.

"Are you alright, Father?" Charles asked suddenly, "Of course, all this talk of Mother… I'm sorry. I should have known."

"No, no… do not apologize." His father said. I felt the need to take my leave.

"It has indeed been… " I couldn't find the word. They both looked at me. Suddenly, it was bursting out.

"This mutual acquaintance of ours once tried to help me as you have, when I had fallen down a flight of stairs… and my parents did not heed him. I believe that if they had, perhaps… I would not walk with a cane today. I…" There were still no words.

"Thank you," the father said, "Mlle Bernard." It was not a 'Thank you' that commanded silence, like when my mother would suddenly cut me off with a 'Thank you, Marie'. Somehow, he meant this.

As we went our separate ways, I couldn't help but think… it seemed so wrong that this Charles did not know the truth that was suddenly hanging in front of him… it was wrong that it was only accessible because of a chance encounter with a stranger… and yet I somehow hoped... that perhaps he would be ignorant a while longer. It was strange that this masked stranger from my childhood could have spared my leg, which –who knows? – might have led to a life on the stage, where perhaps we would have met again…

Quite simply, it was strange that twice in my life I had lost my footing and landed in the midst of the same tragedy. Because I had twice lost my footing, a young boy may soon be hearing a truth that he had never imagined hearing.

And that, I thought with a heavy heart, seems like reason enough… to watch where one treads.