He remembered the last scene of their play as he entered his sanctuary and decided. Christine had left with wretched Raoul, he was never going to see her again. Her memory turned to ash with the Opera Populaire. Now it was time to rise from the ashes, try to stop mourning what could never be rebuilt. He looked past his little pool of soot and saw Amy, a light in the darkness of his solitude.
A glass goblet shattered on the floor. The rift grew wider and he felt dizzy as his eyes were opened. Amy was his last chance to right his wrongs, to leave his past, he could not lose her. But to keep Amy, Christine had to go.
He ripped Christine from his heart like a squirming parasite. He threw what was left of his drawings and music into a pile near the lake. The change was violent and painful and every last scrap of his past had to be eradicated. He threw out his old suit, his models, Christine's dress, everything that brought back painful memories. He fell to his knees as he set the pile alight, tears spilling down his face. His mask was the only piece of his past that remained, his only comfort in the storm.
He groped his way to his organ, blinded by his tears, and grabbed a pen and paper. He brought them down to the floor and scrawled to words with trembling hands.
For Amy