The lights flared onto her eyes as the woman entered the stage, illuminating the gorgeous dress she wore. She smiled nervously as she began to sing softly. A song from long ago, that had echoed in her mind for years. The audience stood silent and attentive as she softly began her performance. Her mind sat somewhere else, however.
The dark eyes in Box 5 watched among the thousands of other pairs, but with much more feeling. He had not seen the girl in years. Her face brought about in him memories of the night. The night filled with flames dancing as he held her tightly. A night years ago when he had burned down this very theater, his theater, to prove to all how much he loved her. How much she had cherished her and she had left. She had left that night and he had not seen her since. Now, here she was.
Her eyes flitted to Box 5, hoping to see the familiar eyes that had enchanted her for years. Instead, she saw only shadows staring back at her. She got a sense he was there, but brushed it away as only memories, a longing for him she was not permitting herself to have. He was gone. Burned up in the fire. They said so. They had assured her that all survivors were recorded in the log that she had read over almost a hundred times.
As she began to sing, she reminisced to the time past. Oh how she wished she could go back and change the choices she had made. What it would be like to accept the ring from him. After all, her heart had been with him the whole time, but how the city would have mocked. Not only her or him, but them together. Her ballet sisters would never have understood.
They didn't understand anything, anymore, it appeared. Not even why she had to leave Raoul after all he had done. Slept with a girl in America. And Russia. And China. Oh, she should have known! She felt as much as a fool as anyone could be.
As the haunting melody continued to play, the dark eyes hidden in the shadows widen with surprise. Their song. His song. He wrote it for her. She was singing it again. Seven years after the theater had burned down, here she was. Singing their song in their theater. He could barely believe it. Why would she sing this song after all this time? Except if... No! He would not allow himself to think that way any longer. That was for dreams only. The only place he could hold her.
She ended the song beautifully, receiving a well-deserved standing ovation from the people around him. He rose as well, keeping his clapping quiet, as to not draw her attention. He was so scared if she saw him, even now, she would run. So he would keep his distance. As to see and hear her again after all these years would have to be enough, since it was better than nothing at all.
He turned to depart down his secret stairwell under the seats. As he stepped out so the chairs could fold up quickly, he instantly regretted it.
"Wait!" he heard her call. Christine was onstage, calling out to him. Looking straight at him. The audience went silent, following her eyes. He dare not make the mistake of looking behind him. Of seeing her eyes. No, he couldn't do that to himself. So, by the time the audience looked up to his box, the seats were once again unfolded and he was gone.
As the gazes returned to Christine onstage, her eyes filled with tears. He couldn't be gone. He was here. She saw him. She knew she did. But the audience just sat confused. Unable to take the staring any longer, Christine bowed one final time and ran offstage.
Meg followed her, so scared of what she might do, knowing of Christine's recent flashbacks since she had left Raoul and returned to the theater. She had begged her not to. The theater burned for a reason. They should never have rebuilt it.
And, yet, they had. More beautiful and grand than any other theater in the world. Drawing Parisians and foreigners alike into its massive halls, lined with marble, gold and silver. Only the performers could complete it fairly and Christine certainly did.
Knocking softly on the doors of her dressing room, Meg wished desperately not to walk in on what she knew was already occurring by the soft sighs on the other side of the door. Christine was mourning her love for the mysterious man who captured her heart long ago. Her angel of music.
The scene was terrible. Christine had tears of glass glistening down her porcelain face, handkerchief in hand, and yet, she still looked like a doll given to a young girl. Meg sometimes envied her beautiful friend, for she looked like a sweaty hog when she cried.
She approached her friend, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder in support. She too knew how it felt to lose someone you loved. Her mother had passed not yet a year ago, and the two women were truly reliant of one another in their mournings.
"He-" Meg started to say, but Christine rose a fragile hand at her eye-level to stop her.
"Don't say it. Please. I know what you are going to say. I can't hear it. Not now. Not here." Christine begged her friend.
Meg only nodded, tightening her grip on her shoulder. Her mind was made up. She needed to get Christine to accept it. She feared that day would never come. But Meg knew, she was sure of it. The Phantom of the Opera was dead.