As a ghost, he was able to move carefully within crowds without attracting attention, moving within the darkness. There were places where the world was busy with its own concerns to truly take a good look at him, and that was especially true in big cities like Paris.

The first time he had come, he was young, fresh from Persia, nervous and terrified of the entire world. His erratic behavior drew more attention to him and thus he always kept moving, kept running to hide in any dark corner he found.

The city was just as Nadir said, and although it's splendors were different than the glittering, bold palace of Persia, they were just as beautiful to his eyes. And how good it was to hear his native tongue! He didn't know that he could even feel longing to hear French, as he had tried to distance himself from any country or language, yet his heart thrilled to listen to the people speak.

That night he held his first vigil at the incredible structure that Nadir had described - the Palais Garnier. The sight of it bathed his young mind in beauty and potential and yet to this temple, he was forever a sinner, forbidden to enter. He was sure his wretched appearance, made worse by a year on the run through the wilderness, would never be welcome, no matter how skillful he was at music, art, theater. They always wanted to see...and then they would regret it. No, his talent was never enough.

He waited for days in the shadows, watching the people come and go, looking for any sign of an Astrakhan cap or of the ballerina, but there was none. How many days did he foolishly stand as rooted as a statue, keeping watch? He keenly remembered the intense panic and grief he suffered when the realization finally hit him - Nadir wasn't there.

He had come back over the years, watching from afar, wishing to see him, willing with every ounce of strength he had to make Nadir materialize. His prayer went unanswered over the many years and today was the day he ceased his unspoken request.

Today he was far removed from that terrified, hopeful child he had been. It was time to shed all of the fantasies that had instead of sustaining his soul corrupted it. Each time he came and went without seeing his old friend, it felt as if he was being eaten up from within and he was done with struggling and fighting with these memories and dreams. He came to the Palais Garnier tonight to bid farewell to it and goodbye to his useless recollections and hopes.

He had started out late afternoon in the Bois, sticking to the shadows until the sun had started to set. The people of Paris came to these manicured grounds to pass the hours and he watched them from afar, hidden in a nook or by some gloomy, shaded tree.

He entertained himself watching the normal lives unfolding before him - shy couples, teasing details from each other through coy conversation, parents struggling to contain their excitable children, older people taking a moment to shakily set down on a bench with a comfortable sigh.

He saw a man pass by, polishing a pince-nez as he walked. For a moment, he imagined that perhaps Nadir and his little friend had gone strolling through here, perhaps even arm in arm like any other amorous pair. In his happiest dreams, they were able to walk on forever, to walk away from the constraints of the stage, from the pressures of palace life, from his own wickedness.

In his worst, most prickly reveries, he imagined that a woman might agree to go for a walk in the Bois with him, would take his arm if he offered it. She might glance up at him coquettishly, her eyes half obscured by the netting on her fashionable hat, and when it grew late in the day and they could find some secluded shaded area, she would offer her rosebud lips to him to steal a kiss…

Utter madness!

Now, after night had fallen, he stood in the shadows by the Palais Garnier and watched the men and women arriving for a night at the opera, his useless dream continuing. He took note of how the fashionable young men - his peers in another life - wore their tailored cashmere coats and glossy hats just so, offered their grey kid-skin gloved hands to the ladies as they exited their broughams. The ladies would flush from the prick of the crisp late fall air on their cheeks or the intention in the young men's eyes as they adjusted skirts of exquisite satins and silks. There were older couples as well, some bringing their adolescent children, each one outfitted in perfect yet appropriate imitations of their parents' attire, fussing over them to make sure they made a good impression on those who mattered. He used to make himself sick sitting there all night and dreaming of being a member of the human race like anyone else but he was ending this foolish pursuit.

How he hated these idiotic delusions of his! Desire for companionship, the intense craving for an understanding love, simple earth-bound lust - how he wished he could excise it from his heart with a surgeon's precision. A sorry magician who couldn't conquer this last trick, the alchemy of pure apathy just beyond his reach. Every time he thought that he had set himself far enough apart from the human race, these obscene needs, these ridiculous desires surged back like the tide.

There would be no woman who would take his arm, who would gift him a simple kiss, who would do anything with him that would possibly lead to having any children. There was no angel who would stoop from Heaven and grant him mercy. Truthfully, he knew he didn't deserve it.

Now the monied old men were rolling up to the front steps, alone at the opera without their wives or out with their mistresses. If he waited here all night until the performances were over like he used to, he would see them leaving with some of the little dancers from the corps.

It was easy recognize the little rats because the girls were rail thin from being overworked on the stage and their little collarbones stuck out from the tops of their dresses. Some of them were young enough that their mothers were invited to dinner as well; many were left to fend for themselves amongst this pack of wolves. They reminded him of the slave girls of the harem that he worked besides, little frail things that started out with wide, watery eyes and within a short time transformed into cold, resigned creatures.

Some chains are better than others…

Tonight, he ended his vigil early. There was no point in looking for Nadir nor his friend; it was obvious over all of these years that they weren't there, would never be there. He turned his back on the Palais for the last time and made his way back to what he considered his home for the time being.

Just as some chains were better than others, some cages were better than others as well. His cage was bigger these days, sturdy, beautifully crafted, and kept the teeming masses away from him. While he cut a menacing figure as a full grown man, much more than when he was just a boy on the run, the thought of a mindless mob finding him, coming for him with their grabbing, grasping hands, ready to rip him to shreds still inspired a cold, piercing terror. He kept moving, kept to his cage…

His business was familiar enough, a theme on his humble beginnings. He advertised as he always did - "the music of heaven, the musician from hell". The audience would be drawn into his dark, black tent by his music, the gloom within already casting a spell on their minds once they slipped inside. They'd drop their coins into a receptacle fashioned to look like bodies of angels and demons writing in ecstasy and agony. When he had a cozy number of them on the benches before him, he would drop the heavy curtain at door to the tent, sealing them inside.

He had levers and such so he could do this all from his cage with very little movement but to the unobservant and halfway-bewitched spectators, it seemed like magic. He made his cage the focal point, raised high enough to keep their hands away, looming over them, making himself larger than life while still allowing them a good look at him.

Within the cage, he would appear in his fine clothes that he paid more than their worth for, fiddling away on his new and brightly polished violin. There was a finely crafted half mask on his face and it drew their eyes, made them wonder what he was hiding. He would play on, his music winding itself inside their ears, their hearts, their minds. If they were fortunate, he would do a few simple magic tricks. If they were truly blessed, truly deserving, he would open up his voice.

Even without fully applying its true power, his voice could drive the crowds into a frenzy of adoration, possession, enchanting them and ensnaring them. That was dangerous as well, because when he reached the finale, when he gave them what they wanted to see, they would turn against him with equal fervor.

The old routine retained the same ending because it worked. He finished the set with a bow and as he came up, he ripped his mask and wig away with a flourish, leaping to the front of the bars to give them a good look.

How they screamed! How their faces drained of color, went stark white! They would vomit, they would faint, they would crush each other in a mad rush through the exit. They wanted to see and when he let them, how they would regret it!

The cage came in handy here. With this barrier, their instincts to form into that mindless, unthinking group that would tear him to shreds with their hands was muted. The monster was locked up; they were safe. He was safe, too. Even if they tried - and some did - their hands wouldn't reach him inside the bars.

Once the show was over, they would then leave him in peace. He would collect himself, begin playing again, and wait for the next crowd to come in.

His time in Paris was lucrative enough. He wouldn't stick with this fair but move on by himself, perhaps taking time to seek out solitude. When he was alone in nature, with nothing but the majesty of the hundreds of millions of stars in the black velvet sky, he began to feel that perhaps, perhaps...he belonged on this earth, that he was a valid creature, that his heart could find peace.

It didn't last long - nothing ever did - but it was restorative and allowed him the courage and the fortitude to face humanity again as necessary. There was nothing so thrilling to him as crossing a doe in a field, or watching the first colors of autumn creep into the trees, or swimming in the cold, black, merciless ocean in the dead of night, alone and at one with the dark creatures in the deep.

He kept his mind centered on these pursuits as he finished out his last weekend in Paris. The crowds were good, he was busy, and the money was pouring in. He soldiered through these last few groups, keeping his eyes unfocused so that he wouldn't see their expressions of horror and revulsion. The sickness he felt from being so close to humanity was beginning to overwhelm him and he was anxious to get back on the road, to burrow deep into solitude and silence once more.

It was already quite late and if he had wanted to make good money, he should've opened his business a few hours ago, but it had been important to him to come to the opera house tonight.

Truthfully, he didn't care much for money, but it was necessary. If he wanted to eat, have new clothes, or anything else, he could steal. Money bought dignity, money bought peace.

If he wanted boots made to his specifications, money didn't just purchase the leather and the labor; extra cash bought him the ability to ask the cobbler to stay open later, to keep the staring eyes of the public away. Many times having that extra money kept the shopkeeper's lips sealed, kept their fearful eyes off of him and his mask while they finished their transactions. Nadir was right; he was a child of the palace and he had expensive tastes, but he couldn't deny himself at least a few luxuries in this lonely life.

Money bought him the materials to make a cozy carriage for himself, one with trap doors from top to bottom to slip through if the mob came calling. Money bought him time to consider what he wanted to do next.

Money bought him silence from those around when he was gripped with the sudden madness of the music that had come into his mind unbidden and demanding before his last unfortunate visit to the rose garden. He would work on it at all hours and when people came to complain, he dropped enough coins in their hands to free him from their interruptions.

Sometimes the money wasn't enough. The music was maddening enough for the creator; the unwilling audience many times couldn't tolerate it, even for ever-increasing sums of money, and he was forced to move on from whatever encampment temporarily accepted him.

There was only one or two more performances to fit in before the end of the night. His tent was crowded and the groups came in ebbs and flows like the tide. The space would fill up to capacity and the moment where he revealed himself, they would leave all at once in one terrified and disturbed mass.

At the end of his next to last set, standing with his back to the benches to readjust himself, he caught sight of a lone figure standing at the back out of the corner of his eye. Not completely peculiar; sometimes those who didn't get enough the first time stayed for a second round.

"Should you stay for the last show, you will need to pay once more. Please deposit your money in the box and take your seat," he said, smoothing his wig back into place.

"I heard about your act, Monsieur, and had to come to see that it was truly you. I've seen you before, you know."

It was a woman's voice! Odd...It was mostly men who stayed for another show.

He replaced his mask, a bit perturbed by this woman's insistent tone. "I am hardly surprised, mademoiselle. You see, I am a sort of Don Juan, and once a woman has seen me, she will never, ever forget me…"

"A scholar, architect, musician, composer, and inventor...locked in a cage." Her voice was closer now. "Monsieur Khan would be disappointed to see you this way."

At the name, he whirled around, eyes ablaze. There at the edge of his cage was Nadir's friend, the ballerina, clad all in black as if in mourning. These intervening years had set a few hard lines in her stern face but it was undeniably her. He fell to his knees, scrambling to the edge of the cage and wrapping his hands around the bars.

"It's - it's you! Mademoiselle - - "

"Madame Giry now. I haven't been mademoiselle for a long time."

"Madame…" His heart was thrumming hard in his chest, his mouth suddenly dry. All of the words he wanted so desperately to speak now failing him.

"And you?"she asked. "Are you still just Monsieur?"

He merely nodded. He had tried out a handful of names over the years and the miles and none had quite stuck. When he gathered the momentum to speak again, all he could manage to say was another name, the one that mattered most to him. "Nadir - ?"

She shook her head sadly. "Monsieur Khan hasn't written me for years."

" - But he wrote you?"

"Why?" She raised an eyebrow. "Did you expect him to not be able to write me?"

"I'm not sure…" He trailed off, his mind calculating what this all could mean. Finally, he said, "I came to look for you for years. I stayed by the Palais all hours of day and night and never saw you. If I would've known where you were -"

"I was at the Palais, Monsieur, but I come early and stay late. I'm the ballet mistress now; perhaps you missed me at the stage door."

His cheeks flushed with heat and he felt ridiculously stupid in that moment. He was always too frightened to approach the theater closely...Did he ever check the stage door? He couldn't recall…

"Now that I've seen that it's you - and have seen what you've become - I have a proposal for you."

"Proposal?"

"As ballet mistress," she continued, "I have the ears of the managers - at times. I think you should come see me tomorrow after hours. It could just be us. I could arrange for you to audition for a place in the orchestra at least, start there. You would be...brilliant. This cage shouldn't contain your genius."

"Audition?" he sneered. "I would never be accepted -! Chavret said I belonged in a -"

"Monsieur Chavret is gone. The other performers who came to Persia so many years ago have mostly moved on. No one would remember you there. And besides...your talent surpasses all of that. It's what Monsieur Khan believed."

"Nadir was a fool -!" He tried to spit it out, tried to color his words only with harsh bitterness, but there was an undeniable fiber of sorrow and frustration at the foundation of his voice. He turned from her, ashamed.

"Yes...I suppose I admired that about him. He had such dreams, saw things so differently than I. I'm practical and life has taught me to avoid disappointments. I clearly understand why you would want to keep to what's safe - and obviously successful for you." She turned from the bars to make her way to the exit. "Nevertheless, I am glad to have seen you once more, Monsieur. I hope that we cross paths again, especially if you decide to consider my proposition. Come wait by the stage door; I usually leave later in the evening and come early in the morning."

"But -!" He said, pressing against the bars again, his fingers curling tight around them. "You know what I am and what I've done! There's...there's no coming back from...from…"

She paused and turned around again. "Monsieur Khan forgave you. For what it's worth, I forgive you too. But if you're looking for more potent forgiveness, perhaps you could look to a higher power if you believe in that sort of thing...Regardless, you don't need to be an angel to play at the opera. In fact, it's probably better if you aren't one."

"But - but - !"

"Goodnight, Monsieur," she said, cutting him off definitively. "Whatever your decision, I would like to see you again….but not in a cage. Come see me at the stage door."

Making it clear she was finished with this conversation, she strode quickly out of his tent, leaving him in silence.