Night had draped over the light, leaving Paris with only the moon and the stars. It was a chilly night and all stayed in their beds wrapped in their warm blankets. All was quiet inside one particular room in Paris. If not for the small shape of a body wrapped up in covers, one would think the room was empty. The breeze snuck through the not entirely closed window and bit the flesh, waking the old woman from her sleep. She opened her eyes to find the room dark; the candle had burned out hours before. She rubbed her eyes, wiping away the sleep. Reluctantly, she got out a bed, pushing away the now silver hair that was in her face. She closed the window, locking it just to be safe and lit a candle, casting shadows throughout the room. A vanity sits on the opposite side of the room, the large mirror revealing Marguerite Giry's reflection. She walks to the vanity and sits in her chair. The candle causes a shadow to hide half of her face which causes her to smile knowingly. Her hands reach for her the knob of one of the doors, pulling it open and grasping hold of a cool, porcelain mask; the mask of the Phantom. She gently puts it down on the table and blankly stares at it, thinking of the owner and what he had created at her now long diminished home. He was a man with many tales that he created throughout his long, miserable life.
Meg held the mask up. She smiles. He was indeed a man with many tales. Of course she had no true importance in these stories. She was just there. A friend of the two women he had cared about more than anything. In many ways those two women had been the same; both had dark brown curly hair, brown eyes, their voices could rival the angels above, and they had both been chorus girls at Opera Populaire, but yet they were different in many ways too. One was a girl of pure innocence while the other was promiscuous, while one of them was fragile, the other was strong, one was timid and shy, while the other was brave and bold. Their names were Christine Daae and Rose Porter both from two separate mixed up stories with one man, the Phantom, Erik. All knew of Christine Daae's and Erik's story, but only few knew of Rose's and Erik's. Their story is more secret, more forbidden to tell, but Meg understood the importance of telling the world their story, it needed to be told. Though their story was no fairy tale, but instead a nightmare, Meg could hold it inside herself no longer. Another drawer was open and instead of pulling out another mask, Meg pulled out an old diary and ink pen. "It's for your own good Rose," She said aloud. Turning to a blank page, Meg began to write, no whisper to the unwritten pages; telling a long, dark secret to the pages. Her conscious told her what she was doing was wrong, but her heart told her otherwise, besides all it was were whispers of a nightmare.