It happened in a different universe, where there was no Christine Daae who would break the Phantom's heart.
The winter had yet to cease over, but the spring already eager to bloom. But there, Erik, the Phantom in his secret chamber would stay indifference of the changing seasons.
One late February, there was one peculiar moment come across his solitude life, deep down in Paris Opera. He seemed to get a visitor. Well, he wouldn't call it a visitor, since there was physically no one to show up. But the melody of the visitor's harp did visit him. And the visit continued, even not everyday—irregular and unpredictable at times—but frequent enough.
Erik couldn't say it was a disturbance though. The tune was sometimes heart-achingly sad or heartwarmingly joyful. Either way he found him captivated nonetheless.
Those melodies, one way and another, had made their way of telling him the visitor's stories. Even when they're wordless stories, they conveyed the visitor's feeling at best. And so he did the same, by the songs he used to sing for no one but empty void.
It had already been awhile, one late winter had shifted to another one. Erik had used to his visitor's melodies. But sometimes he would be so curious of who the visitor really was. Was the visitor a ghost haunting in this place? Not that he worried of the fact though. By those people up in the opera, he was a ghost himself. And so he was wondering if there was another lost soul happened to be his visitor.
That late winter, he voiced his curiosity by a song, and played along with his piano. When the song ended, he remained seated for he felt the presence of someone was walking closer.
And then there was another hand on top of the piano, began to play some random keys.
"I always wanted to play the piano." Said a feminine voice beside the Phantom.
"Why don't you?" Erik looked up at the girl whom he believed was his visitor.
"I'm not sure. Lack of talent? Or lack of faith it seems to be." She grazed her fingers on the black keys and then met the Phantom's eyes.
"But you play the harp quite delightfully."
She smiled. "Thank you."
And so a not-wordless-anymore conversation sparked. Even not that chatty, there was no awkwardness in the air. There was no talk about the face behind the mask, not about the origin whereabouts, or how did she manage to bring her Celtic harp to his chamber. There was no talk about whether the girl was a ghost or whoever she could possibly be.
She would wonder if there was a chance of a strayed cat ended up in this place - she would happily look after it. Or she would wonder if he or she was a strain of melody, how they would sound like. Erik was mostly the listener, but he didn't detest of becoming one. He kind of enjoyed the way she told him her stories, her thoughts about things.
As she watched him scratching notes on his music book, she asked. "How do you sleep at night?" The question just popped up out of nowhere.
"I don't. Well, not for quite a while."
"Why is that? Because you're the genius composer who don't have a switch off button?"
He smiled for a split second. "No. Nightmares. That is why."
"Ah. Nightmares, of course they are." She walked toward him and reached out his music book. "How about listen to a song? I made it some time ago. I'm sure it helps."
"What's the difference when your other songs don't?"
"Tsk. It is different, Mr. Grumpy. I wasn't meant to play such kind of songs before."
"And what kind of magical song is this now?
"I'd like to call it 'A Melody of a Lone Stoic Stranger Who Stranded in a Not So Comfy yet Curious Place, But Still Has One Heart Stirred When One Heard Him Sings.'"
Erik couldn't hold his grin. "Who would be so blasted giving such frivolous title to a song?"
She smiled. "Well, for tonight let's just call it 'Erik's Lullaby'."
The Celtic harp was played, the strings of melodies swayed on every corner of the chamber. And soon Erik slumped into a dreamless sleep.
She watched him sleep and seated loosely on his bed side. She would hum now and then, tasting the tune if it would suit to be the Phantom's Melody. After a moment she started to sing in a soft tone and gently played her harp.
'Even if the opera's curtain has drawn to close
And the drama has brought to end
Yet one quaint melody still played out through the hall
There, if you're willing to listen, with your heart conscience
Beyond the alluring fake beauty and fame
There, the quaint sonata still waiting for one to come and listen along'
"Hopefully a good night, Erik."
Review?
A newbie here :)