Author's Note: Thanks to all who have read/reviewed my recent writing. I feel like I jumped in too quickly with my last full piece of phanfic (Second Chances), so I tried taking my time a little more on this one, writing chapter by chapter, polishing it, and focusing on the details. Please don't forget to review, if you'd like. Always looking to improve as a writer!


Every weeknight was routine for Christine Daaé. Serve customers from 3 until 7, bus tables until 9, clean, pack, and leave at 11. It was simple and she'd grown quite accustomed to it.

After everyone had left the smaller dining room, she began packing up for the night. She twisted her hair and carelessly tied it up into a bun to keep it from her face as she bent over tables and cleaned their surfaces with a worn rag that made her fingers prune after she dipped it into her bucket of water.

It was Friday night which meant the weekend was just starting and Christine would get to enjoy her brief two-day break (except for ballet rehearsal on Saturday, but she could hardly consider that anything apart from her break). She'd been working at Isabella's for the past couple of months in hopes of saving enough money to go to college for dance. Although the pay was good and tips were plentiful so long as she remembered her overly-friendly smile and signature gleeful voice, she also lived off of what her father had given her in his will along with royalties from his music. As small as that income was, it was plenty for her to sustain herself along with the help of her lifelong friend and roommate Meg.

Christine grew up traveling with her father as he played violin with orchestras all around the world. Earlier this year they had made the decision to settle down as his health began depleting in old age. He passed away early that year in April and she still wasn't entirely over it despite it having been eight months since. She tried reminding herself of that fact as if eight months was enough for her to heal. He was her father, the love of her life, the only family she had left. Now he was gone and she was alone. Or at least it felt that way.

Christine kept herself busy with work and dance, trying to keep her mind off her troubles and on what she believed was most important now: survival and getting into school.

As she finished her first table and moved to another, she was reminded of an old tune her father used to play. She wasn't quite sure of its title, nor its composer, but she remembered how her father seemed to favor it so much. The tune came to her in its entirety and she started humming to herself as she stacked the chairs on the table and moved to the next. Subconsciously, she began singing to herself. Each note came to her naturally and soared through the air with a profound precision. The tune was so familiar, it felt as if it flowed directly from her soul and onto the floor. She felt as if she was back with her father in a small and cramped hotel room, enjoying the music that emerged from the sound post of his violin and spilled out, filling every corner of the room. She would often dance as he played, allowing the music to possess her and control her every movement, carrying her across the floor that she always fantasized was a stage when she was younger.

She submitted herself once again, allowing the music to conquer her and control her body, making her routine of work more dance-like as her body began adapting to the tune. She enjoyed working this way. It made her feel as if she were floating across the room and every move she made—the swipe of the rag, the straightening of a salt shaker—was as simple as it was meant to be. And it felt like she was safe again. Safe with her father somewhere in a distant land under the roof of some drab hotel where music peeled back the cheap wallpaper and transformed the room into a grand stage brightened with lights that blinded their view of the crowd. Home.

Suddenly, however, Christine's stage was shattered. She caught a glimpse of something, maybe someone, in the reflection of the window. It was nighttime, so she couldn't see outside, but she could see the rest of the small dining room as well as the doorway where it joined with the main dining room. She stopped in the middle of a hip swing and stared at the wall briefly, embarrassed that she'd been caught in the act of singing and dancing while at work. She turned towards the windows to look at the reflection of whoever was watching her; but as she soon as she turned her head the tall, dark figure and the unnatural white of its face turned as well, heading back into the main dining room.

Christine reluctantly jumped back into her work for the rest of the night, making the mental note not to sing or dance while she was on duty. How could she let herself go so easily? She needed to focus. Focus on work. Focus on ballet. Do not slip back into the past. What only mattered now was the present and the future.