The sound was unmistakable. It was was a harsh sound of anger and despair, dissonant, ugly, but strangely musical. She'd heard that sound before. It echoed through the alleyway, haunting her.
The dark Paris night was cold and wet. Christine clutched her robe around her, her hood growing damp in the drizzle. She shivered, though from the cold or the sound she couldn't tell.
It couldn't be him, she thought, peeking into the alleyway, darkly twisting through the flickering lantern light. She was imagining the semblance, how it sounded so much like the passionate organ he had played as she lay under his robe in the swirling mist of his boat. But I remember...
"Christine!"
She turned at Raoul's voice. He was far down the street already, having lost her at the mouth of the alleyway, frozen by the sound. She picked up the hem of her dress and hurried to him.
"I'm sorry, Raoul."
"Are you alright?" His voice was so warm, so gentle, as he came to meet her, taking her small delicate hands in his own strong ones. He gazed at her with such concern that she wondered how she must have looked - what look of shock or horror came over her as she heard the sound?
"I... I thought I heard something in that alley," she said, rather embarrassed.
"I'm sure it was nothing," he dismissed calmly, and yet his hand came to touch her cheek. "You're so pale." She shook her head lightly, reaching and touching his hand on her face.
"I'm alright. Just a little shaken..." His eyes were so warm, like melting chocolate. How could she be upset when he looks at her like that? He held her close, and whispered softly to her,
"You're safe, Christine." And she knew she was in his arms.
Raoul pulled away and kept her hand firmly in his, leading her through the rainy streets.
Raoul, always her protector. Even now, though the Phantom had disappeared nearly a month ago, Raoul kept Christine close, a constant reminder that he was there, that she no longer had something to fear. She could tell that he worried for her emotional well-being. He was always gentle with her, perhaps expecting fits of hysteria in the wake of her confrontation with the Phantom. He remembered the desperation with which she had kissed that distorted face, remembered her tears as she left the Phantom's lair with him. Something about her had changed.
And Christine knew that Raoul didn't understand. He thought that she was fragile, that the Phantom had traumatized her, that he was a memory that she was desperate to forget. Raoul couldn't understand.
Christine preferred it that way.