Good morning, all… or afternoon, I think it doesn't matter :P. Welcome to "Le choix d'Aminta", or "Aminta's choice" -as you please-, a fanfic I'm co-writing with a friend, user of FF as well, LittleLotte.

This story has been inspired in our obsession about the Phantom of the Opera and specially Gerik's character… We love him as many of you do, so I know you can understand us xD.

This story has been written in Spanish, our first language, and now it will be translated to English. Sorry for the mistakes we could make translating it and for the expressions we use, that sometimes won't be the correct ones. Enjoy and please REVIEW! Thank you!

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"André! Wake up!" -monsieur Firmin hit with his walking stick his friend Moncharmin, who was nodding sleepy on his seat.

The manager shook his head startled, the top hat he had over his lap fell to the floor.

"Never do that again, Richard!" - André reprimanded him-. "You know I'm difficult to sleep..."

"Difficult to sleep?" -answered monsieur Firmin-. "Someone who's able to sleep with the clatter of the wheels over the cobbles of this streets can't say he's difficult to sleep, Moncharmin!"

"I'm exhausted from lack of sleep... I haven't sleep by weeks for this bloody sale" -said André making himself comfortable against the upholstered door, closing his eyes-. "I think I will hurt nobody if I have a little nap..."

"Have it later. We're arriving. Look!"

Monsieur Firmin drew back the net curtain that was covering the dark window, showing the filled streets to his companion. At the end of the road, tall and stately, the building of the Opera House of Paris was rising, white and gleaming, reflecting the weak sunlight of the dying sun. It seemed to be burning like a golden pyre, arrogant and haughty.

Firmin looked away as he felt his eyes were burning with melancholy; That night three years ago came to his mind powerfully; that bloody night in which the great disaster fell over the splendid Opera House; that night in which the great chandelier fell over the audience while the magnanimous chords of Don Juan Triumphant were resounding among the high columns and the golden goddesses, that being blind and dumb waited patiently to be consumed by the devastating flames.

The Theatre burnt...

And with it their dreams, their ambitions...

And the great secret was revealed...

He was real...

Firmin, close that window! -said André, annoyed-. I want to enjoy the last resting moments we can have before this night... Richard!

The manager gave an absent-minded glance to his friend, that was covering his face from the daylight with the grey hat, being unaware of his thoughts. He drew the black velvet curtain and took his walking stick thoughtful, lost his glance in the silver hilt.

Was he real?... Still?...

The coach halted abruptly. Firmin grasped the door, trying not to fall, while André tossed and turned in dreams to remain calm again. The small door was wide opened, allowing the cold Parisian breeze enter the carriage, as the light reflected over the golden facade of the Opera House did.

"Monsieurs?" -a feminine voice called them from the outside firmly, with a very well known tone to both managers.

"Madame Giry!" -Richard Firmin greeted the woman, getting off the coach. He took her hand placing a respectful kiss on it-. "You don't know how pleased we are now madame, knowing we can count on you again, even thought for a short time. Aren't we, Moncharmin?" -he smiled. There was no answer-. "Moncharmin?"

The manager turned his head and he saw André crouched down the soft curtains, sleeping, clinging to his hat.

"Moncharmin!" -Monsieur Richard hit the manager with his stick again, and André awaked startled.

"The Phantom!" -Moncharmin shouted. He was breathless, wide opened his eyes. Firmin looked at him, astonished.

"The Phantom?"

"The Opera Ghost, Richard! He... He was talking to me!"

Monsieur Firmin and madame Giry were flabbergasted, too much surprised to say a word.

"Excuse me monsieur Moncharmin" -said madame Giry-, "but I think you should rest before tonight's soirée."

"This warning does not come from my imagination, he was threatening me for our return!... If you hadn't woken me up I would…"

"Monsieur! Behave properly!" -the woman interrupted him with an imperative, nervous tone-. "You musn't speak of this here, in the middle of the street, so close the reopening of the theatre!"

"Yes André, stop talking nonsense! That man -or whatever it was- passed away! He doesn't exist now! -the manager turned his head to madame Giry, who he knew, had been a very close friend to that masked death-. Does he?" -he asked with concern.

The woman looked at him sternly, pressing her lips.

"Come with me, monsieurs. They are waiting for you."