Author's Note: Ever since I heard of this site I've wanted to do a PTO (that's how Erik signed his note to Firmin so if he doesn't care about the of then I don't either) fanfic, but I needed some practice first so I wrote a fanfic for the Odyssey first. It's okay, but I wrote it in ninth grade so I think the writing isn't very good.

If the Daft Penguin ever visits (bows deeply and mutters "my master") hope you like it, and the offer to post your awesome PTO scenarios is still open.

If Lestat (bows even deeper and says "my maker") or Raven ever visit (mood-depending) I hope you also enjoy it, and you better review or I'll, I'll…. (well, you know me, utterly powerless unless it comes to words…)

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters (yet), including Erik (sighs deeply, and begins sobbing). I also do not own the lines quoted for the auction used in the cast recording. Nor do I own the ideas that came from Leroux's book, mainly the coffin. In fact I don't own anything so I'm weak and poor. (sigh)

Chapter 1: Old Memories Die Here

The mask, as long as he could remember, there had always been the mask…

The Phantom stirred from his deep torpor. He reached up and touched the smooth white whiteness. Yes, it was still there, and would be to his dying day.

Dying, he mused, what a fascinating prospect, to just, not be. He hadn't been suicidal very often, and wasn't now, but his mind always strayed to this subject, to dying. During his abnormally long, tortured life he had had a lot of time to think, especially about life and death.

In reality his longevity was a miracle. He should be dead, but still he hung on.

He was back in his Opera House, in his lair. All that was left in these abandoned cellars was dust and decay. His collection had long ago been removed, and his world disassembled. He and his strivings had been reduced to a mere memory; he was now barely even a myth seeing that the Opéra Populaire was not in use. Erik pulled himself into a standing position. He surveyed the wondrous ruin that surrounded him. He had come back, to old memories and forgotten places, to become the ghost he had once named himself. Erik had come here to be done, to die.

The end was drawing near anyway. Why should he not spend his last days in the place that had meant so much to him? This was his home, if he'd ever had one.

Here he was, old and decrepit, ready to leave this world for another.

He walked over toward his coffin, one of the few things that had been left in his lair. All that lay inside was a single red rose that he had managed to procure before coming down here.

Now for his funeral. There would be no speech. There would be no witnesses. He was alone, just as he always had been.

He went and picked up the rose. These material objects brought back so many memories. He reached into his pocket and drew out a long, black silk ribbon. The memory associated here was painful, still fresh, as if it had been yesterday. The ends of the ribbon were frayed, but the ribbon itself was still intact, preserved carefully over the long years. It was proof that he had never truly let go. Not even now. He would die with his memories in his hands in the form of a rose with a black ribbon, his symbol. He tied the ribbon with unsteady hand.

Was he ready to end this life, which he had endured for so long? Yes. The answer was, most definitely, yes.

Noises began to echo through his lair. Who could it possibly be? Who would have returned after so long?