A/N: LOOKING FOR A BETA!
This is my first foray into Phantom of the Opera fanfiction after a watching the movie, a few different versions of the stage show and happily reading Kay's Phantom. There are influences from the original novel, the musical and Kay's retelling. Also, this story is complete but in need of a beta-reader to help with spelling/grammar/diction issues as well as maybe discuss a few plot points. PM me if you were interested in helping me beta this story. Thank you for reading.
Disclaimer: These aren't my characters, I'm simply borrowing them.
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The Fiddler's Daughter
By Catsitta
.1.
"Papa! Papa wake up. Why won't you wake up?" Blue eyes filled with tears as Christine shook her father. He was so cold, so pale. "Stop it! You're scaring me. Wake up. I promise I won't be naughty and eat all the sweet biscuits again. I won't complain about my singing lessons. I-I'll sing right now. You love it when I sing."
Quietly, she began to hum, her throat tight as she combed quivering fingers through Gustav Daaé's thinning hair. For the past few winters fever plighted the Swedish violinist and Christine nursed him through every shivering, sweating night. A task which would usually fall upon the wife, fell upon the shoulders of the daughter like an albatross. At eight years of age, Christine knew more about sickness and loss than any child should.
Her Mama was in heaven, singing soprano in a choir of angels. She curled her hand around Gustav's and began to sob. God had a fiddler at the golden gates now.
'When I go to heaven, I will send the Angel of Music to you, Christine.'
With her Papa's promise floating in her ears, she opened her mouth and poured her grief and pain into music. Christine's voice never wavered as she gave life to words she at last understood, her pitch climbing into the heavens, as if she could herald the Angel of Music with song alone. As the last note reached the rafters of the small room in the Palais Garnier Opera House, where Gustav recently secured a position with the orchestra, she felt a small piece of herself shatter and the crystalline melody ended in a wail of despair.
An orphan in an Opera House. Christine clutched at the bedclothes as she buried her face against her papa's motionless chest. She was nothing more than an orphan in an Opera House. No longer the doted upon daughter of famous violinist, but a poor girl with no money to bury her Papa. When the manager realized Gustav was dead, he would send her to the nunnery—or worse, force her onto the streets—and her Papa would be buried in an unmarked grave.
Christine choked through another fit of tears, her tangled riot of curls sticking painfully against raw eyelids and cheeks. Why did Papa have to go to heaven? God had a symphony. Christine had nothing except an old violin with fraying strings. Her whole body shook violently at the thought. Papa would never play again, there would be no more sweet music coaxed from the petulant instrument on dreary winter nights. No more silly ditties plucked beneath the shade of a tall oak during the glaring summer afternoons.
She shuddered.
A knock shattered her smothered silence.
"Monsieur Daaé?" a small voice bid from behind the wooden barrier. Most likely a stagehand was sent to fetch Gustav when he did not appear at rehearsals. "Monsieur Daaé, you are late."
A tremulous Christine shifted away from her father's prone form to crack open the door. "My Papa is ill," she said in hesitant, accented French—Swedish was her native language, but her Papa taught her as many fragments of languages as he could during their travels through the countryside. When the boy, a lad of perhaps thirteen or so, frowned down his oversized nose at her in disbelief, she jerked her chin high with bravado. "He needs sleep."
The boy attempted to peer through into the room, but Christine was quick to shut the door. She listened to him mutter on the other side, before shuffling away, most likely to deliver her message to the conductor, Monsieur Reyer. Perhaps the news would travel to Madame Giry as well, so the ballet mistress would not seek out Christine for her dance lessons with the troupe. Christine hated dancing. Singing was where her gifts lied.
However, those gifts were likely to soon go to waste.
She turned to stare at the corpse "sleeping" peacefully in his bed. Suddenly quite sick, Christine gripped her stomach and slid to the floor.
"Papa…I need you."
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At some point, Christine closed her eyes and fell asleep. The worry had taxed her little body into a fitful stupor, her shallow sleep haunted by goblins and ghosts. Twisting and whimpering, she fought the feverish onslaught of grinning faces and clawed hands as they tugged at her skirts. But they pulled her under. Deeper and deeper into the dark, further and further away from the sky. Until there was no more sun. No more light. No more music.
The promised angel left her to drown in oblivion.
Gasping, Christine awoke, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the wooden floor. A floor which she fell asleep on. A floor which upon which she was no longer. Her bitten nails clawed against fabric softer than a cloud—her eyes greeted with the blackness of hell. Where am I? she wondered, but the thought was quickly replaced with terror. Heedlessly, without thought to who or what might be behind her situation, too overwhelmed by the day's events to think through the panic, Christine screamed.
She screamed and screamed and screamed. Not high, girlish shrieks, the kind a child makes when a caterpillar lands on their nose or when a game of chase becomes too rough. No, her screams were primal, and quickly Christine was lost in the rawness. It felt as if she were dying on the inside, not slowly, she wasn't rotting or withering or festering, she was drowning, being trampled upon, being sliced open upon the keenest knife.
Unlike when her agonized sorrow took flight, no song flooded forth from her soul. Just sound. Fear and pain at its most basic.
She heard nothing but her own horror…until the music began. It did not caress, nor did it coax. There was nothing sweet about the first few notes which battered against her skull. In a way, it sounded like someone was screaming at her in return, simply in charged clusters of chords instead of in words. Christine coughed, startled from her terror. That was when the music invaded. Deep, commanding, full of power and demand, the music encircled and ensnared, each rumbling descent of eighths and sixteenths resonated within her skull. An organ. The music was being played upon a pipe organ, the kind found in churches. Soon the music was all she could think, all comprehension, all awareness, stolen away.
Nothing else mattered.
At least until the music quieted to a hum and a Voice joined in sonorous harmony. Brutal screaming wrenched from the hallowed pipes of the proud instrument was soon replaced by a lullaby. Soothing. Gentle. Intoxicating. Christine did not hear the song, she experienced it.
'…what Little Lotte loved most was when the Angel of Music sang songs in her head…'
Could it be? Was it possible? Struggling at the cusp of sleep, Christine listened to the lingering echoes of her favorite story being told by her Papa. Of Little Lotte and her Angel of Music. The melody resonating in her head soon pulled tired lids shut and slowed frightened ponderings.
The Angel of Music was here. He had stolen her away and brought her to his home, to sweet music's throne. Papa had kept his promise. At peace for the moment, Christine slept.
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Two yellow stars.
Christine awoke the second time sore, hungry and with two yellow stars gleaming down upon her in the dark. It took a few weary blinks to realize those stars were eyes. What kind of person had the luminescent eyes of a cat? Gripping the bedclothes, she pulled the fabric to her nose, stifling a cry threatening to pop her lungs like a soap bubble.
The stars winked in the shadows before retreating.
"Wait!" Christine pleaded, her voice splitting the quiet into glassy fragments. "W-who are you? Where am I? Why is it so dark? Papa! I-I need to see my Pa—"
"Silence!" the owner of the yellow stars hissed in a menacing whisper. It was a man. A frightening one. "Cease with your inane prattling, it is tedious and almost as bothersome as your incessant screaming."
Christine whimpered.
The yellow stars ceased to glitter, leaving her alone in the shadows, with only her Papa's stories and memories of haunting music keeping her mind at ease.
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Time passed. Hours. Long, dreary hours, during which Christine remained huddled in the plush comfort of the bed, adjusting to the dark, half-dreaming about yellow stars and promised angels. If those eyes and that voice belonged to the same man whom created such overwhelming music, then he could be little else other than an angel, and that meant this place of dark was his domain. But what angel would live in shadow? Had he stricken her of sight to hide from her a world of heavenly beauty beyond mortal compare?
She rubbed her eyes, discontent swirling in her gut, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.
Her Angel was cruel. He abandoned her to this darkness, tormented as well as soothed her with song, and refused to allow her to speak. Christine worried about her Papa. Who would bury him? Would God take away the Angel of Music if she was not a good daughter who mourned and prayed upon his grave as a good catholic girl should? Or was this her punishment being dealt out for her failure?
Christine shivered—helpless in the stagnant dark.
That was when she heard it, a siren; voices followed, starting with a loathsome snarl.
"DAROGA!"
"…you done? Are you listening…the girl…where…" It was a male voice, different from the man with the stars for eyes. She could scarcely understand half the words being spoken due to his thick, foreign accent. "Erik! Put me down, I—" He began to gasp, his raised voice suddenly a gurgle. There was a loud thump, and a deep mumble of hushed tones. Coughing ensued and a throat was cleared. "Very well… leave…back soon…"
Shuffling feet and low muttering echoed around Christine. Obviously she was not alone in this dark realm with the frightening angel and his fearsome music.
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She was not sure when, but somewhere between hazy moments of sleep and awareness, candles were lit, illuminating the chamber she was in. Beautiful white furniture with gilded accents adorned the room and heavy curtains and tapestries covered the walls. Looking over the edge of the wide swan bed, Christine could see thick sheepskin rugs. In all, the room was ornate yet utterly feminine, as if commissioned by a lady of nobility for a manor home.
Slipping free of the blankets, now that she could see, Christine hesitantly dropped to the floor and began to explore. A wardrobe and matching chest of drawers sat opposite of the bed with a delicate paper folding screen painted with exotic flowers resting nearby. A lady's vanity with a complete toilet, a stool and mirror occupied the wall across from the door. After crawling onto the stool to examine the various bottles, brushes and clips, Christine focused on said aforementioned door which laid ajar.
Plucking briefly at the sleeve of her woolen nightgown, which hung to cover her bare feet, Christine found the courage to creep towards the door and nudge it open. Seeing naught but the glow of candles, she stepped out, startled by the chill of the floor. Soon she found long rug, a bright splash of crimson against the otherwise dreary grey of the hallway. Quietly, Christine continued to move, swiftly finding a corner to turn and peek around. What she saw made her gasp.
It was a massive chamber blooming with candlelight, a pipe organ consuming a far wall with other instruments sitting nearby like an orchestra at rest. Tables covered in paper and bookshelves swelling with countless tomes filled the gargantuan space alongside strange contraptions and models of buildings. Christine had thought the Opera House to be grandiose, but this…this was beyond comprehension. Eyes wide, she stumbled through the room, admiring every strange device and decoration. Like the room she woke up in, the floor and walls that were not otherwise filled, were covered in rugs and tapestries. Between a pair of bookshelves, she spied what appeared to be a fireplace, with a mantle covered in scary insect figurines and a pair of dusty armchairs huddled in front of it.
No fire burned despite the chill saturating the air.
Christine quickly realized how cold it was and began to tremble, desperately wishing for shoes and a coat.
"You are chilled."
With a squeak, Christine turned to face the voice she heard, but saw no one. She looked all around. Still, she could see no speaker. No yellow stars. It was as if the words were being spoken straight into her head.
"Be at ease, child, no harm will come to you here."
"Where am I? Where are you? W-who are you?"
"None of those things are important," he said. "All you need to know is that you are here to create music. Beautiful music. The kind which will bring crowds to their knees, weeping in joy and admiration of the fine instrument residing in your throat. Indeed, one day you shall be prima donna, should you devote your life to music! To me and my teachings."
The Voice—the Angel with the yellow stars for eyes—thought she could one day be a diva? Just as he Papa promised… Fear and joy intermixed with confusion.
"Why me? Why now? My Papa…he…"
"Do not worry about your father. His body shall be tended with care should you accept my tutelage," the Voice crooned. "I can give you everything, all that your father promised you, Christine, and more. All you have to do is promise to do all that I ask of you, to devote yourself to the gift which burns within us both, to swear yourself to me and my world. I will take care of you. You shall be sheltered, fed, your voice nurtured into perfection. What do you say, Christine?"
"I-I…I don't know," Christine could not hold back a whimper. She was just eight years old. What if the Angel abandoned her for not being good enough? Her Papa did promise that she would always be taken care of, that as long as she had music that all would be well.
The Voice began to hum gently, then sing, the words of his song familiar, a taste of home. It was a Swedish folk song, one Gustav sang off-key while plucking away at his violin when he wanted to chase away Christine's gloomy mood. He was a brilliant musician, her father, but it was from her mother Christine inherited her gift of song. Papa always told her she would sing Soprano in the Opera one day, just like her Mama. Her destiny was center stage.
'Little Lotte, people from all over the country will come to listen to you sing.'
"Your father promised you the Angel of Music, did he not?"
Christine nodded, her breath caught in her throat.
"Then trust your Angel, Christine. Swear yourself to me. Devote your heart and soul to music."
"Y-yes. I-I'll do it. For Papa."
"Good girl. Now, you must be exhausted. Why don't you return to your room and sleep?"
"I-I'm hungry, Angel." Christine said in a small voice as she dropped her eyes to the floor. "I couldn't possibly sleep. I-I'm sorry if I'm asking too much…"
The Voice took a long moment before responding, "Ask and I shall provide. Know this now, Christine. You will want for naught while under my care."
"Yes, Angel."
"Go to bed. Your Angel will bring you sustenance shortly."
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Lessons began after two small meals of bread, salted meat and cheese, and another long period of feverish sleep. At first, there was no singing. Just breathing. The Angel with the stars for eyes did not show himself as he instructed Christine on posture and technique. She was glad for this. Had he been in the room, physical and seen, she might not have survived his wrath. He possessed a loathsome temper and would yell insults at her until she ran away crying if she made too many mistakes or uttered a complaint. Within a fortnight, she must have hidden in her room nine times, cowering from the fury of the unseen angel whose Voice filled her head.
"Stupid girl, are you even paying attention? Is this a game to you?" he would say after his scolding, before roaring at her to leave. "GET OUT. OUT OF MY SIGHT!"
Then the whole house, if one could call the dark labyrinth they resided within a house, filled with terrible music. Anger and anguish rattled the walls and wrenched a reciprocal cry from Christine's throat. It hurt. Her Angel's passionate fury was agony.
It was on one such night, where she stumbled upon the notes of a scale she had performed almost perfectly the lesson before, and the Angel began to chase her from the room with his words, that Christine crumbled a few steps away from the massive pipe organ at which she rehearsed. Her legs betrayed her, knees like pillars of feathers being blown apart. Christine's head spun and her stomach ached. Ever since she started lessons, food became difficult to eat due to her nervousness, and without the daylight nourishing her, she found herself often consumed by terrible sadness which made eating even more unappealing.
Sleeplessness soon followed.
"Christine," the Voice in her head actually sounded concerned. "are you injured, mon ange?"
She groaned, curling up on herself as she begged him to forgive her; that she did not mean to fail him. She was trying as hard as she could. She would do better.
Footsteps and the flutter of cloth quieted Christine's mutterings. Cracking one eye open, she saw a pair of black polished shoes, the hem of fine trousers and a long, velvet cape—the kind wealthy gentlemen wore. Wearily, she turned her head to peer up at the figured standing above her. Yellow stars gleamed down upon her from within the sockets of bone-white mask covering her Angel's face from hairline to upper-lip. There was something odd about the shape of his mouth, she noted absently when he knelt down beside her, and he was awful tall. The tallest, thinnest man she had ever seen. He was built like a sapling—all long, spindly limbs—but he carried himself with the nobility of an ancient, unmovable oak.
Clad in the austere clothes of a gentleman attending the Opera and an expressionless mask, the Angel of Music was a terrible sight to behold. Elegant, impressive and beautiful, but terrible all the same. Christine could feel his power washing through her like an ocean wave, and like the sea, she feared he could drown her with his presence alone.
Gloved hands with long, spidery fingers—pianist fingers—hesitantly traced her brow and throat before retreating, as if burnt. He flexed his hands before reaching out and touching her again, briefly, to pull a curl away from her tear-stained face.
"Is Christine unwell?" he said, his proud voice strained. "Did Erik hurt her with his temper? Erik is a monster but he doesn't mean to hurt Christine. He loves Christine. When she sings, Erik feels like a man instead of a beast."
Erik? Who was Erik?
The Angel gathered Christine into his arms, "Erik will get help for Christine. Yes, she will be happy again. Christine will be happy and stay with Erik. She won't leave him. Never, never. She will sing for Erik and one day, Erik will make her prima donna, and she will sing for the world. Everyone will hear Erik's masterpiece and know that even a monster can create beautiful things." They were soon in her room and he was laying her down on the bed. He was careful to pull the sheets over Christine, as if he was terrified of breaking her. Was this the same man who shattered her with his words? He was so willing to rip her apart, to frighten and threaten her when she faltered during her lessons, yet now, he seemed scared, as if touching her would be her death.
And why did he keep mentioning this Erik person?
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It was not long after he put her to bed that her Angel disappeared. Christine laid in the plush bed, dizzy and ill, blearily pondering the past couple weeks of her life. Absently, she realized she did not know what day it was, but given the number of meals she was served and the lessons she attended, she must have missed at least one Sunday. Would God forgive her for not attending Mass? She prayed every night, or what she believed to be night since it was when the third meal was served and she went to bed. Maybe that was enough. But she wanted to visit her Papa's grave and say goodbye. The Angel with the yellow stars for eyes did say he would take care of her father's burial should she dedicate herself to music. To be buried by an angel…what a blessing.
Even if that angel lived mostly in darkness and yelled too much.
"Stop dragging me Erik! I can walk…" Christine frowned. Where had she heard that voice before? It was male, deep and foreign, his French more heavily accented than hers. "In Allah's name, what is…" He slipped into a different language altogether, his words harsh and guttural, a sharp contrast to the fluid romance of Paris' native tongue. And there was that name again, Erik. Was there a third person silently standing at the heels of the Angel of Music and the man with the funny accent? Erik seemed quite violent with the odd sounding man, so why did they continue to meet?
As she lost herself in meandering contemplations, the door swung open, illuminating a strange man as he entered…or more accurately, was pushed. He stumbled across the threshold, and as he straightened, cast an annoyed glare back into the hallway. Even in the dim lighting, Christine could tell he was an older man of darker complexion. His hair was short and his beard was streaked with grey. As he proceeded to light more candles, obviously familiar with the composition of the room, she could see more and more defining features. His clothes were fine. His eyes were jade. His nose was crooked. And like the Angel, he radiated power and control belied by his physical appearance.
Christine pulled the bedclothes to her chin. Would he hurt her?
As the stranger finished lighting candles, he set aside the one he held in hand before drawing to the edge of the bed. Sympathy glowed in those jade eyes as he began to speak. "Bonjourpetit. My name is Nadir, and I wish to make you well again," he said as he gently pulled the blanket from Christine's hands. As he folded the sheet down to her waist, Nadir muttered almost too softly to hear, "I do not know why Erik asked for my assistance, he is quite capable of making a diagnosis and treating any ills with his potions."
He gently rested his palm to her brow, told her cough and asked if there was pain when he pressed his thumbs against her face. Nadir was swift in his assessment and concise with his questions. "What was the last thing you ate? How well are you sleeping? Have any bad dreams? Dizzy spells?" Christine answered as best as she could, occasionally prompting him to repeat a question or word because of his accent. Her own light grasp of the language sometimes proved a barrier, and without realizing it, she would fall into her native Swedish when French failed her. It was a slow, awkward exchange, but eventually, Nadir seemed content with what he knew.
"Sleep Christine. I will make sure Erik provides you with what you need to get better."
"Monsieur, can I ask you a question?"
Nadir tilted his head, "You may."
"Who is Erik?"
Those Jade eyes widened, "Erik is your…caretaker. Did he not tell you his name?"
"Are Erik and the Angel who wears a mask the same man?"
He nodded, though he looked distinctly paler than before. In a hushed voice he said, "Whatever you do, Christine, no matter what is said or what is done, never remove his mask. Bad things happen when people remove Erik's mask."
"I won't. I promise…He would get angry, wouldn't he? I am scared of him when he is angry. He yells so loudly."
"Christine, do you wish to leave?" Nadir asked, his expression somewhat odd. "I can take you away from here if you wish, far away from Erik."
Christine shook her head, "No. Then he would be sad. My Angel is already so sad and angry. I can hear it in his music. He needs me." She paused, taking in a small breath, "He says he loves me. It is terrible when you lose someone you love. The sadness never goes away."
"Quite profound for someone so young," Nadir said. He looked older than when he entered the room, as if mountains of sorrow rested between his shoulders. "Just remember, if you ever want to leave, I will help you."
Christine smiled and watched the strange man leave the room.
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The cure for her illness was food, sleep and sunshine. Her Angel—Erik—sounded rather pained when he explained her state of malnourishment. Lessons were cancelled indefinitely and if she wasn't sleeping, there were snacks she was supposed to be eating. Christine did not see him for a few days, but she heard his voice chiding her, demanding that she eat every bite of her meal. Despite her inability to see him, Erik was quite adept at noticing when she tried to hide food in the folds of her skirt.
Later in the week, after a failed attempt at hiding her half-eaten supper, Erik at last revealed himself again. He melted out of the shadows of the organ and stood agitatedly near the bench. Those yellow stars consumed her every movement. Christine could not maintain eye contact. Instead, she bowed her head timidly and did her best to finish the delicate pastry on her plate. She loved sweets, but eating so much after eating so little made her queasy and feeling those penetrating stars upon her made sugar turn to ash in her mouth.
Pushing around a few crumbs with her finger, Christine glanced up again to find Erik hovering nearby, one gloved hand tapping impatiently against his trouser clad thigh. Once again, he was dressed for the Opera, the cut of his attire expensive but severe. Christine wondered if he owned any clothes that were less formal. Probably not, she thought. Why would an Angel wear anything by the finest clothes? The dresses he provided her were no less elaborate in design and quality than his suits. They were colorful affairs with flaring skirts and trailing ribbons, like the children of nobility wore rather than the modest dresses clumsily hand sewn by poor daughters of fiddlers.
It made her very uncomfortable at first to wear such beautiful things, but as time progressed, Christine quickly learned to love each new addition she discovered in her wardrobe. The pale pink gown she wore was a fashionable day dress and made her feel like a lady instead of a little girl…even if she had a terrible habit of tripping over the hem and was rapidly ruining it.
"Good morning, Angel," Christine greeted cheerily in an effort to break the silence. Erik stared at her for a while longer before nodding, in what she assumed was agreement. "Are we to have a lesson today?"
"Of sorts," he replied. "Have you ever ridden a horse?"
She shook her head.
Erik folded restless arms behind his back, and began to tap the toe of his left shoe. "Daroga said Christine needed to exercise in the sun and fresh air. Horse riding is a lady's sport, yes?" When Christine shrugged her shoulders noncommittally, he turned away from her and began to pace. "Music sustains me and there are times when I forget that you cannot live off of song alone. You need more than voice lessons, food and sleep. You need sunshine, friendship and a proper education. A Lady, as I have come to understand it, needs to know how to ride a horse. And to be a prima donna, you must first be a lady, not a child." Those yellow stars seemed rather mournful as he added softly, "It was never my intent to neglect you. Now, go change into something more appropriate for riding."
With a nod she did just that and when she returned, he extended his hand for Christine to take, and for the first time in weeks, led Christine into the world above. She had not realized it until then, but her Angel of Music lived on the banks of a lake deep underground—his home so full of heavenly wonder was built in the devil's domain. However, after emerging from labyrinth of night, Christine lost all inclination to question it, her eyes bright as they stood outside the Opera House in the fading glow of dusk.
Hand still curled around her Angel's, she smiled.
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"Angel?"
"Does Christine need something?"
"I want to see my Papa's grave."
"…very well."
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It was three months after Erik plucked her from her life in the world above that Christine at last saw where her father's body rested. Three months of mourning, lessons and growing up. The Angel of Music still raged at her when angry, but she no longer fled his raised voice. He often disappeared for days, only his voice keeping Christine company and guiding her through lessons. Music consumed her and when was exhausted from singing, Erik filled her head to burst with lectures on theory, art, language and culture. He even provided her with handwritten workbooks for Maths and demanded that she practice reading and writing in at least a half-dozen different languages. It was exhausting.
And on the days he allowed her for rest, he encouraged her to work on her stitching or would take her above to ride.
Her head would swim by the time she collapsed in bed to sleep and her fingers ached from writing. Christine often would think back to those two weeks where all she was to learn was music.
Yet she saw no reason to complain. Her Angel was taking care of her, and had agreed to allow her to visit her Papa on her rest day.
A young man named Jules drove the carriage to the cemetery. The Angel with the yellow stars for eyes apparently trusted him with her safe-keeping. Sitting alone in the hansom was disconcerting, but Christine knew better than to think that her Angel was far away. Comforted by this knowledge, she spent the ride and her time in the graveyard without fear in her heart. Erik would take care of her.
He would always take care of her.
Upon finding Papa's headstone, Christine knelt in prayer, ignoring the cold and wet seeping in through her clothing. A thin layer of frost draped the land in grey and crunched beneath even her meager weight.
"I miss you Papa," she said. "but the Angel of Music found me and is taking care of me. He is strict and strange and lives in the dark…sometimes he yells and the mask he wears is awful scary. But he is kind, and has promised that I'll be a prima donna one day. Every time I sing on stage, I'll sing for you." Tears burned at the corners of her eyes and after praying long and hard, a small whimper crept out, "I wish you were still here, Papa. Why did you leave me?"
A shadow fell across the headstone.
It was time to leave.
"I'll be back soon, I promise."
-TBC-
A/N: This story is complete and approximately 6 parts long. Updates will be determined on if I can find a beta. Thank you for reading, please review so I now how I'm doing! Feedback is important, even if it is a simply "I like" or "I don't like".