It was a curious thing, a frightening thing, this overwhelming sadness in which Christine Daae found herself. Her grief was all consuming, a thick cloak that blocked out all warmth and light. Her mother she had barely known, but for her father to die...that was something for which her heart was not prepared. Gustav Daae had been her entire world. The stories he would tell, not to mention the fatherly companionship he provided, was everything to her. What she missed most, however, was the music he could coax out of his wondrous violin.

For music was where their true bond stood. During their travels Papa would play while she would dance and sing. Always he would tell her that she sang as an angel would, and she would smile and laugh, happy to be under her father's loving gaze. She never thought to ask him of the cough he had developed or the ashen hue of his cheeks, for he would always shrug it off with a smile. It was far too late before she realized he could not stay with her forever.

In truth she was far too old to believe in fairy-tales, but Gustav had always been so gentle with his daughter, encouraging her imaginative nature and fanciful habits. Though she was thirteen at the time, a young lady, she was so naive towards the world. Christine did not know what it was to be alone, not really. So it was that before his death, Gustave Daae whispered sweet promises to his daughter. The promise of the Angel of Music. Once he reached her mother's side, he'd send the Angel to her.

"Do not weep, my darling. Papa loves you so very much. You are never alone." It was the last he spoke to his daughter, the last he spoke to anyone. After that he had fallen into a deep sleep from which he never returned.

At first Christine held fast to hope. Father had promised to send his Little Lotte the Angel of Music, and her father had never lied to her before. Even as his body was lowered into the damp earth she did not despair, for he had promised.

Weeks went by, then months, and eventually a whole year had passed wherein no angel had come. Father wouldn't have lied, not about something so devastatingly important. When she asked Mama Valerius, the elderly woman was quick to agree. The Angel was merely waiting. Surely that was all.

She entered the conservatory at the opera house, making her way into the chorus. For years she worked, singing and dancing as was expected of her, but she never did much to distinguish herself. After waiting for so very long, the music had left her. What point was there to music when her sweet father was gone? For Mama Valerius she worked and won a few achievements, but even her praises weren't enough to drag young Christine from her doldrums. Was she not worthy of her long awaited angel?

The years weren't kind to Mama Valerius, and it was not long before death came for her as well. She had died peacefully in her bed and was buried in the family plot beside her husband, but eighteen year old Christine was all alone. No angels came to lift the veil of sadness that had settled over her, and steadily she came to realize that angels must not exist.

After sweet Mama Valerius was lowered into the dark, damp ground, Christine knew little of hope. Day in and day out she was go to her lessons in the opera house and sing what was required of her. Other than the words of songs, nothing passed through her lips. No one really spoke to her anyways, being an unimpressive chorus singer and withdrawn since her arrival. Doubts assailed her mind. Had she been a bad daughter? Though she could not remember being cruel or petty, she must have been. Why else did everyone leave her? Why else would this angel, if it even existed at all, keep away when she needed hope so badly? Mechanically she would bathe and groom herself, but the roses had left her cheeks, and any food she tried to eat turned to ash in her mouth. Steadily she was wasting away.

When Christine Daae decided that it was high time for her to die as well, she went to the opera house's chapel. The ins and outs of suicide scared her, but it was not nearly as frightening as spending her life alone. What she could not decide on was the method. Swallowing coals like Portia was out of the question, but perhaps poison or a knife would do? It was cold calculation that settled her on a blade. Purchasing poison would be suspicious, no matter what she said it was for, but no one thought twice about blades.

In front of painted angels she knelt, praying forgiveness for what she was about to do. The small blade sat in her lap, the flickering candles that she lit for father and Mama Valerius reflecting off its edge. It was the only light in the room, for darkness had fallen. The opera house was silent as a tomb, even the ballet rats asleep in their dormitories. No one would disturb her. Still, the apathy that she wore as a cloak these past months and years began to fall away as she grasped the blade in hand, pondering where best to plunge the dagger. Her mind came alive at the idea, her hands trembling with excitement she had not felt for so long. Oh, what sweet relief it would be to die, for the pain in her heart to cease.

With grim determination she brought the blade up, holding the tip against her chest, right above her heart. Time dragged on, as did her fear. Would it hurt? If God existed, would he understand? Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she began to press in the blade.

"Stop!" cried a voice, and Christine found herself frozen in shock. A gust of wind followed the order, and the candles were extinguished, leaving her in darkness.

"Please," she whispered, her voice rough from disuse, "Who is there?"

There was no answer, no movement. Perhaps she had imagined the whole thing in her grief. She brought the knife up once more, ready to take the plunge into death's arms so her madness would end forever.

Yet no sooner had she started to push forward than the blade was jerked from her hands and flung away, clattering on the cold paving stones. Fear tore at her heart, fear that she had been discovered, and such fear of whoever had been watching and listening. Still, Christine could not force herself to move, ready to take whatever scolding the stranger would give her.

"You must cease this, Christine." The voice commanded. "Stand and live, and do not attempt this foolishness again. The world is a better place with your beauty in it."

That voice! Oh, such sounds she had never heard. The golden, brilliant voice that filled her mind, that stirred her soul had spoken of her beauty, as though it could ever compare to his own. For though it was beautiful, heartrendingly so, it was most definitely a male voice. Her knees felt weak, her hands and arms trembling violently, yet it was not out of fear but awe that such perfection would speak with her. Blindly she reached out, trying to touch him with her unworthy hands, but all she grasped was the corner of his cloak. Still, he did not move to stop her, and she wept over the fabric in her hands, pressing her cheek, her lips to it reverently.

The years of doubt and loneliness seemed worth it now.

"Why are you weeping, sweet Christine?" The golden voice asked kindly, and she thought she felt him move closer though she did not dare raise her gaze.

"I have waited a lifetime for you, Angel."