Your name is Christine Daaé and you are younger than you feel. It has been some years since the incidents which made you famous occurred and you live a quiet life now at your husband's chateau. Few in Paris would remember you now, save the odd stage hand or two who perhaps still earn their living there at the Opera. They might talk about you in curious reminisces: Say, do you remember that pretty girl who sang here so well, only to vanish five stories below this very stage?
The truth is, you'd rather that the strange affairs surrounding you be forgotten. Perhaps it's easy for the others, for those who only knew your story from whispers and backstage gossip and journalists looking to sell papers. But it's not so easy for you.
True to his name, the Opera Ghost haunts you still.
There are days when you fear you're going mad, for His voice echoes in your mind. Days when you look at your handsome husband and wonder at the unspoken sorrow behind his eyes he tries to hide. Instances when you wonder whom you can trust, times when a mirror gives you pause, moments when music pains to hear.
The most haunting thing is that you often fear you do not wish to forget at all.
You dream every night. Your dreams carry you back to another time, a place souls meet in an exuberant clash of senses and feelings. In these dreams, the discordant music in your mind is resolved into the unearthly harmonies you remember. And though you have now given it up, in your dreams you sing once again, your voice meeting His. These are the nights you wish to never wake, for waking means losing the music that sustained you for so long.
On the worst of nights, you recall the depthless grief you had seen in His eyes after robbing Him of His mask and dignity. Your throat burns raw from silent screams, your heart pounds from an all-too-remembered terror. The dream summons to you the rocking of the boat and the musty, damp smell as you were rowed away from Him forever. The angry shouts of the mob ring like a never-ending dirge in your ears, drowning out any semblance of music.
Occasionally, you wake up crying, causing Raoul to reach sleepily for you in the dark. He always forgets in the morning, but you do not.
With the dawn, you write every detail of the dream on a small piece of paper and place it in a locked box at your bedside. You do so, lest you forget each shining crystal of memory that dotted your mind and you should cease to dream.