At five fifteen that Monday morning, I was rudely awoken by my dog, Annie, a happy-go-lucky beagle, from my abnormally peaceful slumber. Annie was a great dog, the daughter of my dad's beagle, Rita, but on days like this, Annie was just plain annoying.

I climbed out of bed, grabbed Annie's food dish, filled it with her favorite kibble, and set it at her feet. Annie barked happily, daintily sticking her mouth in the dish.

What a princess.

I, on the other hand, went straight to the bathroom. After taking a five minute shower, combing my impossibly curly hair, putting on a bit of makeup, and donning my work uniform, I walked out the door and downstairs to the Giry Breakfast Co.

My name is Christine Daae. I am eighteen years old, and I am an orphan. When I was merely eight years old, my dad died of a heart attack. Since then, I'd lived with my Aunt Marie, and her daughter, my best friend, Meg. The Giry's weren't my blood relatives, but more like adopted family. Our families had known us for ages, which started with my mom, who had been Aunt Marie's best friend.

I say had been, because my mom is dead, just like my dad, except she died soon after I was born, so I never knew her, and it doesn't hurt as much to think about her as it does to think about my dad. Yet he would talk about her all the time, and kept pictures of her everywhere, which helped me get to know who she was and what she was like. But I never really knew her.

The Giry's, my new family, run a small café in the heart of Paris, France. Giry Breakfast Co., it's been called for years. Meg and I had been working here after school, on weekends, and during breaks since we were fourteen. This particular Monday was during summer break, which meant work half the day. The other half I could do what I wished, as long as I returned for dinner at five.

After work most days, I'd walk around the city with Meg, rarely I'd do some shopping, and I'd always go to my room upstairs and sing. I loved to sing, and I loved music in general. My dad had taught me to love music; he had been a violinist himself. Ever since his death, music had been all the more important to me.

"Good morning, Christy," Meg said, sending me back from my reverie about my dad and music. 'Christy' was one of Meg's annoying nicknames, yet I always had a comeback in store.

"Morning, Meggie," I said, shoving her playfully. Meg laughed, causing me to join her in laughter.

"I see you two are awake," Aunt Marie said. "Go on, I think we have a few customers."

I sighed dramatically, causing Meg and I to burst into more laughter. Aunt Marie rolled her eyes, cracking a smile, and went back into the kitchen to fix our breakfasts.

"So what are you going to be up to today?" Meg asked, picking up a notepad and pen. I did the same.

"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Maybe a little shopping?"

Meg grinned. She absolutely loved shopping. "We have a date, Miss Daae."

I smiled, heading for the first table with people sitting at it I saw. After taking their orders, I went into the kitchen and taped the order to the window. The chef, a man named Joseph Buqet, whom we called simply Jo, grinned at me.

"Mornin', Miss Daae," he said. I sighed. Jo was a ladies man, and was entirely convinced that every woman in the world was in love with him.

"Good morning, Jo," I said, giving him a slight smile. That's all he ever got out of me.

I walked behind the counter, waiting for some new customers to appear.

My wish was heard, for a man walked into the café minutes later. He was high class, that I could tell from his clothing. But the odd thing about him was the predominant white mask on his face. And not even an entire mask, only half, on the right side of his face, as if it had been cut in half.

Jo whistled lowly. "Well I'll be. Erik Destler, in the flesh," he said.

"Who's Erik Destler?" I asked, still eyeing the man curiously.

"You're looking at him," Jo said. "Never seen a stranger lookin' man. He's a musician, but a strange one, because of them there mask. Writes darn good music, though."

I nodded, walking over to Mr. Destler to take his order.

"Hello, my name is Christine, how can I help you?" I asked.

Mr. Destler looked up from the menu, his eyes going the slightest bit wider. "What do you suggest?"

I bit my lip nervously. "Well… the crepes are pretty good."

Mr. Destler back at the menu, then up at me, staring at me curiously for a second. He glanced back at the menu, and said, "I'll have the les oeufs et les crêpes," he said.

Writing down his order, I nodded. "I'll be right back with your order."

Walking away, I could feel his stare burning into the back of my head. I began to wobble nervously, wondering why he was staring at me.

Jo noticed that as well. Taking the order from me, he said, "I don't like the looks of that guy."

"He's scaring me a bit, too," I admitted, remembering how he stared at me when I took his order.

Jo began cooking the man's order, cracking two eggs into a pan. "Wonder why he wears a mask."

I shrugged. "Maybe he's a very theatrical person."

Jo laughed. "Theatrical, eh? I can be theatrical." Jo then began impersonating an opera singer, making strained and rather hilarious faces. I laughed, clapping.

"Bravo," I said. Jo grinned, bowing, which caused me to laugh even more.

"Or maybe he's got a really ugly birthmark on his face," Jo suggested. He snapped his fingers suddenly. "I know! He doesn't got a face at all!"

I shook my head. "No face at all? Interesting theory, Jo."

"Well, here's No Face's order." Jo slid the eggs onto a plate, a small stack of crepes following. I took a deep breath, picked up the plate, and walked over to Mr. Destler's table.

"Here you are, sir," I said, setting the plate down in front of him. He looked up at me, staring at me for another seemingly endless moment. "Thank you," he said.

"N-no problem," I stuttered, walking away. The entire time he was there, as I served other customers and talked to Jo, he was staring at me. Like he was curious, or interested by me.

Finally he finished his breakfast, to my relief. I picked up his plate, and as I walked away, I began to wobble. Before I could fall and break the dish, Mr. Destler stood up and caught me around the waist.

I looked up at him, stunned. "T-thank you," I said.

He nodded. "N-no problem."

Wait- he stuttered?

My thoughts as jumbled as ever, I walked away. Mr. Destler stood where he was for a moment, finally sitting back down to wait for the check. I handed the plate back to Jo, who took it to the sink. I told him about the near broken plate, and how Mr. Destler stuttered when he spoke to me.

"Mhm. Sounds like he's never been that close to such a beau-ti-ful girl before," Jo said with a playful smirk. I rolled my eyes. I may have been pretty, but I wasn't beautiful.

"Maybe someone else should give him his check," I said with the hope that Jo would take my place.

Jo put his hand on my shoulder with joking affection. "Sorry, love, but that's your job."

I sighed, taking the receipt to Mr. Destler. In a matter of seconds he was handing me a wad of cash. The total was only twenty four francs, yet he'd given me fifty.

"Keep the change," he answered, seeing my curious look.

I was stunned once more. "Thank you," I managed.

"It's nothing," he said. He got up, walked toward the door, and turned around again.

"If you're here again tomorrow, I think I'll come again."

With that, Mr. Destler left.

What?

As confused as ever, I took the twenty four francs to the cash register, keeping the remaining twenty six. An hour later my shift was over, so I headed to my room to think.

That man was so strange! First the mask, then he stared at me for who knows how long, he caught me around the waist when I almost fell over, and the strange farewell about coming back the next day if I was there.

Entering my bedroom, I fell to the bed, letting my suspicions consume me. What if he was a serial killer that preyed on teenage girls? Or even a rapist… I mentally cringed at the thought. He could be for all I knew about him.

Before another suspicion could enter my mind, I felt something pressing against my back. I rolled over, and what did I find but a letter. I opened it hesitantly, gasping when I read it. I hadn't ever seen his handwriting before, yet somehow I knew that it was from him. Who else would write this?

Christine,

I will see you sooner than you think, ma cher.