Sweden, Summer 1881

A man sat in a cozy armchair overlooking a crackling fireplace. The fire toyed with the shadows, casting strange shapes around the small living room. The twilight sky outside the window was a rich dark blue, almost black; there was no true night during the Scandinavian summers. The man sat, silent and unmoving, until he lifted his arm to peer at his watch. He had gotten a new one—his old watch had been broken by himself, back when he was in Paris.

It was eleven o'clock. Christine was surely asleep by now—she shouldn't know about the little present Raoul had received...

Raoul de Chagny glanced down at his pocket and pulled out a small brown parcel he had received a couple hours back. He carefully tore open the parcel and pulled out a sheet of parchment paper. The rest of the small package contained items that belonged to his young bride, Christine. A pair of gloves, two handkerchiefs, a shoe buckle, hair combs... A cold knot of fear twisted in Raoul's stomach.

He took a deep breath to summon his courage before he read the letter. It read: Erik has requested me to return these items to Christine and to place a notice in the obituary section of L'Epoque for him. He said you would know what this means.

Yes, Raoul knew. The package had come here all the way from Paris, mailed from a Persian who had taken Raoul beneath the Paris Opera House to rescue Christine from Erik. However, they themselves had fallen into the mirrored chamber of the monster, and had barely escaped with their lives. This package signified that Erik was dead, and Christine was to return to Paris. She would journey down into the depths of the opera house, down into that terrible darkness, and return to his dead finger the simple gold ring he had made her wear.

Christine would return to Erik... the man who had killed Philippe, Raoul's older brother. The man who had tried to force Christine to marry him. The man who nearly killed Raoul.

The fear which coursed through Raoul's veins turned into a cold determined anger. He gritted his teeth. There was no way he would let Christine return to Erik—she would never know about this package, or this letter. She would never return to Paris, ever, and give that monster an opportunity to hurt them again.

Raoul crumpled up the letter and threw it into the crackling fireplace, watching with a strange satisfaction as the parchment blackened and curled inward like a dead leaf. He then donned his overcoat and shoes, carrying the package with him, and strode outside. He headed down the small dirt path until he reached a ledge. Beneath him stretched out a vast valley, complete with a river and mountains. He tossed the parcel into the crisp air of the Northland, thinking about Christine. She was with the man of her dreams, while Erik was still giving her nightmares, many months later.

Christine would never go back to the Palais Garnier. Only a complete madman would think so... Raoul thought.

"Goodbye, Erik," Raoul muttered out loud. He then added sarcastically, "I surely will miss you. Perhaps Christine and I will meet you in heaven..." He paused. "Actually, I hope you rot in hell. Have fun down there, will you?"

Everyone talked about the strange and mysterious scandal for months:

The Opera Ghost strikes again... Seven tons of chandelier falls on a concierge's head as prima donna croaks... Young Swedish singer kidnapped... Comte de Chagny found dead, his brother the Vicomte gone...

These words were upon every pair of Parisian lips. These words were in every cafe, every parlor, every party. Rumors spread like plagues, infecting every mind they came into contact with. For a while it was all anyone could talk about. People talked about what could possibly have happened to the Swedish singer Christine Daae and the Vicomte de Chagny, wondered out loud who did it all and for what reason.

But eventually, the scandal faded away into oblivion. The staff of the Opera had all but forgotten those terrible events that had happened at the opera house. No one was afraid of the mystical figure called the Opera Ghost anymore. And Parisians lost interest, moving onto other topics. The strange events that took place at the opera house were forgotten.

But some events are not meant to be forgotten—nor should they.