A/N: Thank you so much for checking out this first chapter of my new story! And a very special thank you to everyone who helped me get back on track when I was lost!

I. Ink and Paper

The dull hue of the sky was eerily fitting for the occasion. The sullen clouds lurked over the service, causing many of the on lookers in the crowd to shuffle anxiously. Christine skimmed across the faces around her as the priest drawled on with a detached sermon. If she, a person who knew Buquet, was nearly bored to tears- she couldn't imagine how out of place the priest felt. She wondered if it ever became second nature to speak highly of a stranger's time on Earth.

Of the handful of mourners that gathered to pay half-hearted respects to Buquet, she only recognized a select few faces. The Girys stood across from her with their heads bowed, although she occasionally caught Meg's icy eyes flickering up to meet hers. Beside Madame Giry, Monsieur André slouched by Monsieur Firmin. She noticed that André would occasionally jut his elbow into Firmin's side, as the later man seemed unable to stay awake.

There were other faces she had seen in passing at the Opera House, but she hadn't a clue who they were. In truth, it did not surprise her the majority of the company elected to forego Buquet's funeral. His death had been a tragedy of course, no one denied that. But Buquet had never been particularly liked within the Opera House. The absence of his vulgar humor and foul remarks was not seen as a great loss.

Christine shivered. She had always found his sneering face revolting, as he was fond of making crude faces anytime she had the misfortune of passing by. However, she would never forget the last time she saw his face, as the memory was seared into her mind. The image of his red, swollen face as he dangled by his neck over the stage haunted her dreams.

Another chill rattled her spine.

Raoul grasped her hand. She looked to meet his concerned gaze, and he squeezed her hand reassuringly. She assured him she was alright with her eyes, and then turned back to the coffin before them.

Raoul. Sweet, handsome Raoul. She hadn't attended a funeral since her father's, and she was grateful her charming vicomte insisted on accompanying her.

The priest struggled to string a few closing words together as the service came to an end. The mourners did not immediately take leave, as no one was truly engaged enough to notice they were free. Monsieur André was the first to come to his senses. His eyes grew wide, and he slammed his elbow into Monsieur Firmin side one final time. With that, the managers turn and hurried away.

Their retreat triggered an unspoken dismissal. With a nod to the Girys, Christine took hold of Raoul's arm as he guided her away. She was relieved to leave the cemetery behind.

They strolled silently, lost in their own thoughts, until they reached the elegant brougham with its bored driver. Raoul greeted the man politely as he pulled the door open for Christine. She felt a small drop of rain on her nose, and she hurried inside rather ungracefully. By the way he grinned, she knew Raoul had witnessed her clumsy escape from the rain. She was too embarrassed to meet his amused face.

Instead, she kept her eyes on the window as the carriage eased forward. With her arms crossed, she watched the streaks of rain trail across the glass. While she despised the feeling of wet clothing and soggy hair, she had always enjoyed the sound of steady rain against a window.

"Christine?"

Reluctantly, she left her thoughts. She titled her chin back in his direction. He looked her over, his boyish grin falling into a sad smile.

"Where do you go, in that head of yours," he teased. "Sometimes I miss you so much, but you're sitting here in front of me."

"Oh, forgive me, Raoul," she frowned. Thoughtfully, she turned back to the window. "I feel like a mouse, and my mind is a bird that likes to swoop down and carry me off. Isn't that silly?"

"No," he replied. "I don't think it's silly. Philippe often gets lost in his thoughts. He could tune out an orchestra if he wanted." Another boyish grin, and she could not help but smile back.

They fell back into a pleasant silence. She was glad for the quiet, as her mind was much too loud to carry on polite conversation. The rain drizzled out as the carriage rumbled to a stop in front of her apartment. Her body ached for a change of clothes and a nap, and she had no intention of denying such an alluring request. Raoul stretched over to open the door and stepped out.

It surprised her when he shut the door after she made her exit. He whistled to the driver to grab his attention and gestured to her building. The man shrugged, turning to light a cigar. Raoul offered his arm to escort her the short distance to the entrance. He trailed behind her as she led the way up two flights of steps. Perhaps he wanted to make sure she got inside? He had been increasingly protective since that night at the opera house.

Christine shook her head. She did not want to think about that night.

She fumbled for her key in her bag. Sheepishly, she smiled. "Thank you, for today. I don't know how I would have lasted through the service without you there." Raoul straightened his shoulders and beamed, but made no move to leave. She turned to unlock the door. "I suppose-"

"May I come in?"

His request took her off guard. She blinked as the door swung open. "Of course."

Raoul had visited her flat on many occasions, usually for a quick chat over tea before escorting her to some planned destination. It always made her feel insecure to have him over, as the cramped space was embarrassingly inferior to the prominent level of luxury Raoul was accustomed to. Christine hung her cloak and pointedly ignored the several misplaced books and random articles of clothing strung about. She had not expected guests.

"Should I ready a kettle?"

Raoul shook his head. His appearance took on a rare air of seriousness, and he pulled out a chair for her at the shabby kitchen table. "There is something I need to discuss with you, Christine."

She clasped her hands on her laps as he sat across from her. "Is everything alright?"

"I suppose that depends on one's outlook," he scoffed. "Philippe informed me the day before last that he had struck up a rather monumental business deal with an investor in London."

"Well, that's great news!"

"Yes, he's quite ecstatic. Which is why he could not believe I was not jumping with joy when he instructed me to pack my bags, as he expects me to join him in London until the new year."

Her stomach dropped. That was over six months away. Raoul sighed, but held out his hands for her. Christine moved her hands from her lap and into his. He met her sad eyes with a smile.

"All is not lost, Lotte. My brother may be an emotionless, walking book, but he is not cruel," he chuckled. He pulled one of her hands forward to kiss her knuckles. "We leave in the morning, and I want you to come with me."

She hoped the shock on her face was not too apparent. "To London?" A pause. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. "You want me to travel to London with you?"

"Yes," he exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement. "Phillipe is alright with it, of course even if he wasn't I'd still smuggle you away somehow! How could he expect me to leave you here with the phantom still loose?" Suddenly, he scoffed in disgust. "Two weeks, it'll be two weeks tomorrow you know, and those lousy gendarmes have yet to find the man. In fact, I heard from the sister of one of the gendarme that they stopped searching after only a few days. They didn't want to declare the entire night an accident until after Buquet's funeral!"

The Phantom. Raoul's favorite topic of conversation since that night, followed by the incompetence of the investigation. She felt her heart skip a beat. How could she ever tell Raoul that while she nodded along with his ramblings on the phantom and the various ways he'd punish the man, she spent her nights wondering where her masked angel had run off to. It was impossible for her conscience to reason with her, and she found her thoughts leading to the phantom more often than she'd ever want to admit.

"I cannot go to London with you," she murmured. He grew silent, his rant cut short. Christine averted her eyes, as she couldn't bear to look at his face. She withdrew her hands to cross her chest. "I can't go to London with you, Raoul." The space around them grew tense. She nearly missed his whisper asking her why. There wasn't a simple, linear answer she could give him, not when her heart felt at war with the rest of her.

"What about the rooftop," he fretted. "What you said, what I promised! This is our chance to leave this place, Lotte. There are no phantoms in London! We could be happy, Christine. Just a few months in London, and then we can go wherever you wish. We can get as far away from this place as your heart desires."

"My heart desires Paris, Raoul," she blurted. With a sigh, she steadied her tone. "I cannot up and leave. How could I? This is my home. What about my things, my friends, of the life I have here? What of the opera house?"

"What of it," he snapped.

Christine straightened in her chair. She huffed, suddenly feeling far too drained by the day. "Madame Giry wants me to give vocal lessons until the Opera House opens. The managers have opened private lessons up to the public again, as there's now an abundance of practice rooms available."

He looked at her like she had just squawked out another language. Although his eyes grew suspicious, he spoke with an even tone. "You want to give lessons? That's wonderful, of course it is. You're a splendid teacher Christine." He leaned forward and furrowed his eyebrows. "But, have you no fear of that place? You watched a man hang to death. You were nearly crushed by a chandelier. These weren't accidents, Christine."

"I know, Raoul." She sunk down in her chair again.

"The phantom did this, Christine," he pleaded. "The man you swore to me was real, the man you insisted would tear apart the whole of Paris to reach you." He ignored her protests to stop. "The man who made you disappear inside a locked dressing room. You did tell the gendarmes about your dressing room, didn't you?"

"Please-"

"Did you tell them his name, Christine? By God, I've heard you cry it with fear countless times." She stood from her chair and sent it scraping back behind her. Raoul stared at her heartbrokenly as bitter tears began to fall from her eyes. "You never used to call him the phantom, Christine," he whispered. "He was always Erik. Why did you forget his name after that night?"

Raoul hummed at her silence. She watched through stinging eyes as he stood and slid his hand into his pocket. He withdrew something from within, but kept it hidden in his hand as he approached her.

"I've upset you, and I know you think I speak only from a place of spite. Forgive me, I've gone about this the wrong way it seems." He opened his hand on the table, and pulled away to reveal a small velvet box. "I love you, Christine. And it does not shame me to admit that the thought of you here, alone, terrifies me."

He gently pushed the tiny package closer before making his way to the door. Christine stood frozen in place, even as she heard the door open behind her. At the last moment, she turned and sucked in a trembling breath. "Raoul?"

He twisted to face her, and she was relieved to see no malice on his face. He smiled, though it was far from his usual wide grin. "May I write you?"

She nodded. She hadn't the heart to deny him such a simple request. His shoulders seemed to relax at her answer. She wanted to say something, to scream forgiveness and explain the endless uncertainty that plagued her every waking moment. But she knew it was impossible to voice what her frantic thoughts were screaming.

Raoul looked her over longingly before bowing his head. "The new year, Lotte. I pray I find you in the new year." With that, he turned and was gone.

Christine collapsed into her chair and wept. What was she thinking? Had she gone mad? Her knight in shining armor was galloping away, her childhood sweetheart had offered to carry her off and she had tossed him aside. Did she not want a happy, loving life? Did she not love Raoul as purely as he loved her?

No, she did love Raoul. It was how she loved Raoul she could not decide. Miserably, she reached for the delicate box next to her. The brilliant ring inside was gorgeous, as she knew it would be. A whimpering part of her wanted to thrust the band onto her finger and chase after the brougham.

She pushed the box away. A flash of anger seared through her skin, and she stormed from her chair and into her bedroom. Perhaps she didn't fully understand why she needed to stay, to seek him out. But she had lied for him, and she was determined to gain some answers at the very least. Would he be accountable for his actions? Would he apologize? Or, would he simply deny any wrong doing?

She fetched a pen and stationary from her nightstand. Her hands nearly trembled in frustration, but she managed to scribble out three small words on the page. She considered signing her name, but tossed the pen away before doing so. She had to know, she had to find some explanation for why her heart ached since that night. She needed to know why she missed that terrible man so very much.

The days melded together. One after another, day into night, until she didn't bother to keep track. The first few days after Raoul's departure were some of her worst. Meg insisted on staying by her side as she cried on and off through the hours. And while she felt annoyed at her friend's insistent requests to venture outside for fresh air, she knew she was better for it.

On the fifth day, Madame Giry would not let her stay in bed a moment longer. She arrived at Christine's home at sunrise and forced the girl to change. Together, they cleaned the flat until the afternoon, and then she treated Christine to lunch. It was odd, to have someone come into her home and order her around, but she didn't mind much, as she was overwhelmingly lonely.

One month after the tragedy at the opera house, the managers declared the space safe for rehearsals and private lessons. Christine was apprehensive about her return to the opera house, but there were thankfully no lingering traces of the shattered chandelier beside the massive empty space on the ceiling. While Meg mostly helped her mother with dance lessons, Christine happily took on five regular vocal students. It was an easy routine to slip into, where she would meet the Girys on the steps of the opera house each morning and spend the day trying to teach all that she knew.

Christine waved her last student goodbye as she watched the young girl skip away to her mother. She glanced around, listening as the last lessons of the day began to wind down. She swung her bag from the ground and collected the few bits of sheet music on the piano.

She enjoyed her time with her students, and dreaded the day off tomorrow. She knew her Sunday would be spent isolated inside her home as she drank mug after mug of tea. With a huff, she turned from the room and made her way through the opera house. Her path cut through the auditorium, and she couldn't help but nervously look up at box five.

She wondered if her note still sat untouched beneath the plush seats, or if it had been found but ignored. She didn't want to think about either outcome, as she couldn't decide which was most painful. Christine bowed her head and hurried the rest of the way out of the auditorium.

The Girys were nowhere to be seen as she lingered on the front steps. Christine shifted from foot to foot, feeling restless after another string of sleepless nights. Her insomnia came in waves, leaving her almost entirely sleepless for many days at a time. As she fiddled with the strap of her bag, a sharp prickle erupted on her skin.

She felt eyes on her.

Christine looked around wildly for whoever stared at her, but she found herself completely alone. She couldn't stand to wait another minute, and she fetched the first cab she came across. The feeling of being watched stayed with her until she clambered into the back of the carriage. As the opera house faded away, she released a breath she didn't know she was holding.

It began to pour as the driver yielded in front of her building. She quickly paid the man and rushed inside. Even her brief run through the rain had her soaked, and she grumpily climbed the stairs. The moment she stepped through her door, she carelessly tossed her bag aside and made for the washroom.

She tried to ease into her normal evening ritual, but her irritation from the rain and the paranoia at the opera house had her on edge. She managed to burn her small dinner, and she stubbed her toe not once, but twice. Her usual nightly cup of tea was forgotten, and she headed straight for bed the second she deemed it dark enough.

With the sheets pulled firmly against her, and the sound of rain against the window, Christine curled into herself. She rested toward the window, where she had cracked the drapes open enough to watch the rain through the glass. The dim gas lights on the street below flickered, while the occasional clap of thunder rumbled through the night. She knew she wouldn't sleep for many hours, but she closed her eyes in hopes of letting the storm soothe her into unconsciousness. Another crack of thunder, and her front door rattled.

Her eyes fluttered open. Another knock on her door, and she knew it couldn't possibly be thunder. Christine pushed up on to her elbows. She couldn't imagine who would be at her door at such an hour. Another thud and she jumped. She wanted to ignore whoever waited on the other side of her door, but her mind considered the possibility of someone in need of help.

She did not know where this sudden source of bravery came from as she crept out of her room. She twisted the knob of the gas light on by the door and reached for a thick robe she had left hanging on the settee. Another knock, and she flinched.

"J-Just a moment," she called, shaking as she pulled her robe on. Every warning bell in her head screamed at her as she reached for the lock. But something urged her on, as if answering the door was the most important thing in the world.

With a creak, she pulled the door open. Frantically, her wide eyes hurried to take in the sight before her. She wondered if she was dreaming, or perhaps even dead.

He was absolutely drenched. His slick hair dripped onto his face, with the top of his white mask hidden behind his dark locks. At first glance, the exposed half of his face appeared almost skeletal, as his features were far thinner than she remembered them being. The heavy circles that always lingered below his eyes were so dark it made the intense yellow shade of his eye color seem to glow.

"Erik," she gasped. Erik shivered, but she wasn't sure if it from her voice or due to the state of his clothes. Silently, he reached his hand towards her. Instinctively, Christine scampered back. He flinched.

Delicately, Erik turned over his hand to show her the crumbled note in his fist. Christine immediately recognized her own hand writing. He withdrew his hand and turned his head to cough, his entire body tensing as he did so. She heard a faint wheeze linger within his breathing, even as he turned back to her.

"I found you," he rasped. Her head was spinning, and she stumbled back further into her flat. The ground was rocking too fast, and she wished it would stop so she could catch her breath. Erik warily stepped towards her as black dots began to flicker in her eyes. Her knees gave out from under her and she felt herself start to fall as she remembered those hastily written words she had scribbled out weeks ago.

Please find me

A/N: Please let me know what you think, good or bad! All reviews are greatly appreciated. Thank you so much for checking this out~