Some say the ghost of the opera house was never exorcised; that he lived on, longing – aching – for his angel of music, in the catacombs below the Garnier. Skulking forever in the bowels of the earth. The phantom's story has become distorted over the years; told and retold until truth became legend and pain, the like of which I believe has never been felt before or since, becomes tale and cliché. Perhaps people want to romanticise his fate. Perhaps, by rendering him a phantom – immortal – they are forcing themselves to forget that he was a man. Or perhaps, whatever their pretensions to the romantic may be, however many plays they've seen or books they've read, when faced with the idea of a real person being shattered; ravaged; destroyed by love…well. Perhaps it is just too devastating. When the curtain of hazy legend is lifted there are few who can bear to stay and witness reality.
None now survive who know of the part I played in the phantom's story. My name, Leala, means 'loyal one,' but like the man of whom I speak, most have forgotten I have one. My connection with him goes far back however. Back to the time when I was still Leala. Back to the time when the phantom was not a phantom; not even a man; but a boy.