Two.
She remembers it.
Every stone, every step.
The opera house had since burnt down, and only a shell is left of its glory. Much like her. She had heard there had been talk about what they were going to do with it. Some said to restore it. Others said that would only invite the ghosts of the past back.
She knows where to get in, he showed her once. He had many entrances, but this was the only one that she knew for certain she could still access now that the rest of the building was gone. Burnt.
She takes the steps slowly, but her feet are certain. Her heart is beating in her chest like it hasn't since she sang for the first time — it beats like it has finally woken from a deep, sorrowful sleep. She doesn't know what to expect when she gets there, but she is ready.
Twisted every way, she has felt like a wandering child since the fire. But now she knows the path. Now she embraces the last bit of darkness.
She comes upon a plain door in the stone. It is heavy, made of wood and iron. She pulls on it, and it opens to her touch. She is surprised that the torches are still burning.
Stepping inside, a wave of memories comes back to her so quickly she can hardly breath. It smells familiar, comforting almost. Like heavy spices. Cloves and fresh paper. She blinks, trying to steady her feet as she takes a step down the heavily carpeted hall. She feels dizzy, a floating sensation flowing through her veins.
There are different doors and twists in the hall, but she knows where to go. At last the hall opens, and her heart gives one heavy thump.
She scans the room, and her eyes land on him. But it is not what she has expected.
There, on the couch, is Erik. He is not in the coffin-like bed she had expected him to be, but lying almost…peacefully. And his chest is rising slowly. Very, very, slowly.
Her traitorous heart beats with every step she takes. She counts her breaths.
One… two… three.
She kneels slowly next to the couch, daring to touch his face. She traces a slow finger on his chin and next, memories of months ago coming back to her. He has a light stubble on his chin, and his skin feels… warm.
She tries to whisper his name, but no sound comes from her lips. Her throat has closed up, her lips are dry.
So instead she dares to do what she has thought of for months now. Leaning down, she slowly brings her lips to his once. Twice. A third time. A tear slips from her eyes as she closes them, leaning her forehead on his.
She doesn't notice when she falls asleep next to him, half on the couch, half on the floor.
Only later she startles awake, only to see his chest rise and fall once, deeply. Her heart drops to her stomach all at once, thinking the worst… when his eyes open.
Yellow eyes stare into her own, and she knows what she must do.
She must have gone out, his wife.
He was concerned at first, but then realized that it was a good thing. It was still afternoon — they weren't having dinner for a long while. Perhaps she was socializing for once, or getting a breath of fresh air.
It was a good thing, he convinced himself. His wife was finally recovering.
Everything was going to be the same.
