Disclaimer: I own nothing but this stupid, slow computer...darn...
A/N: Remember that one, single rose at the end of the move???
A single red rose lay upon her grave. But who had left it? Who had traveled to the realm of the lost, to lay a flower of passion for her memories?
In the cold reality that that world was, no one had. Not the mysterious Phantom, nor Raoul, Madame Giry, Meg, nor anyone in all of Paris… Many who knew the passed girl would have a fleeting thought in their mind, for only a moment, and just as quickly dismissed, when they knew who lay the crying blossom upon her ground… but everyone knew that the Phantom of the Opera wasn't real…or was he?
At least, to her, he never truly existed, and to he, not existing to her meant his life did not exist. She was what he lived for. He taught her his precious melodies, and sang of haunting lullabies in her dreams. He would steal her away from the world, shield her from the undead light above. He would watch her every moment of his life, but he wondered if she ever truly watched him…
The snow slowly piled upon the grave, as it had piled upon his heart for those long, torturous years, and the rose was kissed gently by the drifts.
He still didn't understand… Why was she gone? Why was his angel forever gone, the only one that could rescue him from his undying hell?
"As her heart is now stopped, so shall mine be forever cold…"
Night was settling, and the snow was faltering more and more as it died for the evening. But upon the cold stone lay the single rose, glistening in the moonlight under the snow, as if cried upon by a thousand tears.
It would be the last night he went to the cold cemetery, and as he walked to the grave, a single black rose was held in his hand. He paused only a moment to let a single tear drop upon the ground, and let fall the flower, where it settled beside the other. The two lay peacefully together, and the specter turned to leave, but on a sudden urge, turned back, bent down gracefully, and shed but one petal from each flower. Taking these in his hand, he turned his back at last on the memories he was leaving behind.
A/N: Pleeeeeeeease, pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, PRETTY please R&R. It doesn't take that long and I don't care what you think, so long as you think, so please, tell me what's on your mind (preferably about the story...duh). Good reviews are welcome, of course, but constructive criticism is reeeeeeally helpful. Thanks!