The familiar sound of an orchestra warming up – the final tuning of the string section, the occasional bleat from one of the horns, the trill of a lone flute – never failed to fill Erik's senses with pure pleasure and anticipation. Although he preferred the opera for its vocals, a symphonic concert was enjoyable for different reasons. One could truly appreciate the nuances of each instrument without the distraction of human voices.

He wondered if he would have company up in the rafters tonight. It had been several months since he'd seen her. Unlike him, she seemed to prefer a symphony or concerto to the opera.

As if on cue, she came into view, carefully making her way up the rickety ladder. She was dressed in her usual attire of a plain white blouse and black skirt. Either her wardrobe consisted solely of this one outfit or there were several of the same style blouse and skirt in her closet. The only hint of colour was a blue ribbon that held back her straight, chestnut hair.

He frowned, noticing something new. As she reached the landing and stepped gingerly across the catwalk, she swept a long black cane to and fro across her path. Could it be the girl was blind? He watched with interest as the older, grey haired man that he guessed to be her father, followed behind her. They took their seats and turned to each other, murmuring in low tones.

Although Erik had seen the woman many times from his hidden perch in the darkest corner, he'd never paid her much attention. Never bothered to eavesdrop on their conversation or even learn their names. But for some unknown reason, the revelation that she was blind intrigued him. He ventured a little further out of the shadows, straining his keen ears to catch any snippet of what they were saying.

"I don't know if I'll finish on time," she said, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

"But you must! Her birthday is less than a month away now."

"I know. But these wretched headaches! Even after thirty minutes, the ache starts and it worsens until I'm almost ill. I don't suppose I'll be paid if I miss the date."

The man shook his head. "No. Won't you accept my help? I can't jot the notes as deftly as you do but it might still be helpful…"

She gently interrupted him. "You've been more than helpful. I never would have received this commission without you."

Applause rang out around the theatre as the conductor made his way onto the stage, including the enthusiastic claps of the young woman and her chaperone.

Erik stared down at her, fascinated by what he'd just heard. Blind and a commissioned composer? And a mere female, no less. How was it even possible? He yearned to learn more and could only hope they would pick up the thread of conversation later, perhaps during intermission. As the first soft strains of the violins began, he shrunk back into his hidden corner and settled down to enjoy the music.

To his annoyance, he found his mind wandering. He was aware it was happening yet he couldn't seem to stop it. Couldn't simply block out his thoughts and absorb himself in the swelling tide of the orchestra because of one simple fact – tomorrow was another anniversary.

It would mark two years since he'd last seen Christine Daaé. The days seemed filled with such anniversaries. The first time he'd sung to her when she'd been a young child, as her mysterious angel of music. The first time he'd physically touched her, leading her by hand down the passageways to his home. The first time in his existence he'd been kissed. The only time.

When Christine had shattered his heart and left him alone, he'd had some hard choices to make. He'd briefly considered ending his life. Hanging himself in his noose, perhaps, or drowning himself in the depths of the murky lake. But pride hadn't allowed it. He'd survived much worse in the past. His fragile, stupidly human heart might have been broken, but if he encased it in iron and never allowed anything to harm it again, it would eventually heal itself. Then he could regain his power and control and emerge stronger than ever. He had to admit, however, that he hadn't anticipated the road to his recovery would be so long. He was struggling still and unsure of the next path to take.

Two years had passed since that fateful night. The one and only performance of Don Juan Triumphant and the bittersweet parting of Christine from his life. Bitter because he knew he would never set eyes on her again. And yet, he sometimes felt the sweetness of that single kiss had been worth the turmoil he'd endured. In that one moment, he'd understood what it felt like to be a man in a way that he'd never thought possible.

He hadn't been able to stay, of course. Paris held too many memories and had become too dangerous for him. During his life at the opera house, he'd been able to amass a tidy sum. After crossing the English Channel, he'd bought a modest home just on the outskirts of London. But although he'd fled the country, he hadn't been able to escape his mind. In those first few months, his moods had swung wildly. Intense rage had battled with despair, as he'd alternated between screaming and sobbing. He'd wished Christine was truly happy at the same time he'd cursed her soul and longed to see her rot in hell. Then the guilt had consumed him for his heinous thoughts and he'd begged for her forgiveness. This had continued for what had seemed an eternity, a vicious cycle that had driven him nearly mad. After a time, the internal battle had gradually eased, perhaps because he'd simply exhausted himself. He'd then settled into a curious listlessness in which he'd ceased to care about anything. Though he'd still stopped short at deliberately ending his life, he wouldn't have been disturbed in the least if some unknown force had struck him dead.

During that initial year, he'd only stepped out of the house when absolutely necessary, the dark hood of his cloak helping to obscure his face. Shop clerks had always given a startled glance upon noticing his white mask but they'd never commented on it. He'd managed to live a quiet, anonymous life. Not that one could really call it living. In truth, he'd merely existed. Until one day, something unexpected had entered his life.

There had been a shallow scratching at the front door. For the longest while, he'd ignored it but the sound had persisted. Opening the door, he'd found a bundle of white and black fur, huddled on the ground. Black, sorrowful eyes had peered up at him and a pitiful whine had escaped its throat. Without hesitation, he'd brought the animal inside. The fur had been caked and matted with a combination of mud and blood; one of its hind legs twisted and broken. Its breathing had been laboured and shallow. Although he was no doctor, he'd sensed the animal hovered near death. The beating had been thorough indeed.

Anger and pity had coursed through Erik as he'd cleansed the animal's wounds and set the leg as best he could. Even though the process must have been horrendously painful, the dog had occasionally extended its pink tongue to lick his hand, as if giving thanks. He hadn't been sure if it would live through the night. He'd half expected to find a cold, stiff body to dispose of come morning. But when he'd awakened at first light, the dog had lifted its head slightly at the sight of him, wagging its plumed tail across the blanket that had served as its bed. He'd been pleasantly surprised. Like him, it had seemed to be a survivor. Days had melded into weeks as he'd continued to nurse the collie back to health. In time, the binding had been removed from its leg. Although it was now cursed with a hobbling limp, its joy at being able to walk again had been obvious.

On the day that the animal had taken its first tentative steps, Erik had decided to name her Sascha. After weeks of having been nameless and only referred to as "it", she'd deserved an identity.

That momentous day had also sparked his decision to live again. He'd started slowly, taking pleasure in small things. For instance, he'd been denying himself all but the most basic of food. For more than a year, he'd sustained himself mainly on bread, water, and the occasional slab of meat, just so he wouldn't collapse. He'd lost a significant amount of weight, even though he'd mostly sat around like a shapeless lump. When he'd finally indulged in some cheese, fruit, and a good bottle of wine, his taste buds had sung sharply. He'd forgotten how satisfying a good meal could be.

Then he'd started going for walks at night, exploring the neighbourhood with Sascha at his side. There was a great expanse of green fields behind the house, complete with a bubbling little brook. The next home was a good half-mile down the road so the location he'd chosen was ideal. Although he'd made the conscious decision to rejoin the world, he still valued his privacy.

As his body had slowly regained its strength, he'd found himself craving music again. In his depressed state, he'd thought that perhaps that part of his life was over. When he'd first come to his new home, he'd furnished it with only the bare necessities to make it liveable. However, the lone extravagant exception had been a piano. He'd purchased it on impulse upon first moving in and yet, when it had arrived, the sight of it had seemed to mock him. Into the corner it had gone, with a cloth coverlet thrown hastily over top of it. There it had sat, silently gathering dust.

When the urge to plunge himself into music had returned to him at last, he'd removed the cover and ran his fingers over the keys. His eyes had closed as he'd revelled in the smooth, cool touch of ivory beneath his skin, reacquainting himself with the contours of the instrument. Then he'd sat down and played. And played and played. The music had seemed to gush out of him in an endless stream, at times fierce and pounding and at others, sweet and lilting. Time had held no meaning as he'd lost himself in the glorious throes of his reawakening. When he'd finally ground to a halt, his chest had been heaving, his arms and fingers aching from their overexertion. Wiping sweat from his brow, he'd sat hunched over limply, grinning like a fool. Sascha's high-pitched whines had reached his ears, reminding him that neither one of them had eaten in many hours. She'd been treated to a fat sausage that night for her patience.

Soon, his own playing at home had not been enough to sustain him. He'd needed to experience live theatre again. A fair number of venues in central London had been his to explore. Having neither horse nor carriage, he'd simply made his way about town on foot. Dressed completely in black, from the tips of his polished boots to the hood of his cloak, he'd blended in with the night. Occasionally, someone would catch sight of the mask and do an almost comical double take, eyes widening with curiosity and fear. But invariably, that person would hurry to cross the street to avoid brushing past him. Erik was quite aware that he struck a commanding figure, especially since regaining the muscles he'd lost. Better food and rigorous exercise had aided in filling out his form nicely. He also supposed it didn't hurt being taller than average and possessing a natural, animalistic grace.

He'd roamed from theatre to theatre, slipping into the backstage areas unseen with laughable ease. Climbing amongst the rafters, he'd enjoyed many performances from his bird's eye view. However, it had taken considerable time and effort to find the one venue to call home. While variety was all well and good, he was at heart, a creature of habit. Although structurally, this particular theatre didn't come close to matching the glittering grandeur of a Paris opera house, it did boast one of the finest and richest sounding orchestras he'd had the pleasure of hearing in a long time. The maestro was infinitely more talented than the nervous buffoon that had directed the music of the Opera Populaire. That fool had bowed to the misguided demands of la Carlotta one too many times, managing to shred any ounce of respect Erik may have held for the man.

While the performances here did include opera, the main staple of this theatre was the orchestra itself. His ears were treated to the genius of Liszt, Mozart, and Beethoven. Concertos, symphonies, and other works. The purity of sound was like a balm on his wounds, allowing them to heal by tiny degrees and giving him a measure of peace.

Then one night, a young woman had invaded his sanctuary in the upper rafters. He'd stiffened with annoyed surprise, withdrawing further into his corner, even though he knew he wasn't visible. On occasion, theatre crewmen came up here to adjust a backdrop or some other maintenance, never knowing an intruder lurked in their midst. But encountering a woman here had been a first. He'd watched her warily, hoping she'd leave. But it had soon become apparent that she intended to remain and take in the performance. Considering the ease in which she'd hoisted herself up and walked about at this considerable height above the stage, he'd surmised that this was her regular seat. From her modest dress, he'd assumed that she couldn't afford a ticket and must know someone within the crew who allowed her this free pass. Very clever.

She possessed a calm, quiet nature and thus, he'd soon learned to ignore her presence. Over the next six months, she'd come on a fairly regular basis, often alone and sometimes with an older man. Their appearances had ceased to bother Eric and in fact, when the last several months had passed with no sign of either one of them, he'd vaguely wondered what had befallen them. Their reappearance tonight had been met with neutral indifference on his part, until he'd noticed the cane in her hand.

The roar of applause roused him out of his contemplative state. Damnation, he'd missed the entire performance due to his useless meandering down memory lane. As the conductor took his bows, Erik remembered that only one piece was in the programme tonight. There was no intermission. The evening was over.

A hum of voices floated up from parting members of both the audience and the orchestra. Erik's gaze returned to the couple that shared his unique box above the stage. They were lingering, appearing to be in no rush to leave.

"…wonderful, wasn't it?" the man was saying.

His female companion smiled. "It certainly was. Though the piano could use some fine-tuning. It sounded a little off."

"Oh? I didn't notice. But your ears have always been sharper than mine."

"Ignore me. A minor quibble that certainly didn't detract from the performance. The pianist had extraordinarily nimble fingers. I'm quite impressed."

"I've been thinking. I could put in some inquiries and try to find someone to assist you. A music student, perhaps. As long as the deadline is met, you could promise payment after completion of the piece."

Her lips pursed thoughtfully as she contemplated the idea. "That might work, yes. But whoever accepts the position would have to agree to anonymity. As you well know."

"I know. A student looking to earn some money might be our best option."

Very interesting indeed. Erik had stood and edged as close as he dared to the couple. He was still a good twenty feet away and careful to remain hidden, keeping his head averted so no light could reflect off his mask. After talking a brief moment longer, they too rose to their feet. This time, she trailed after the older man, her left hand skimming across the railing as the other held her cane. Just before she reached the ladder to make her descent, she stopped. Her head turned slowly to the right and stilled, looking over her shoulder.

Erik froze, resisting the urge to back away. She was gazing straight into his eyes. It was impossible! He was sure he'd made no sound to reveal his position. He'd memorized each plank of wood that gave even the slightest groan and meticulously avoided them. Even his manner of breathing changed when he chose to remain unseen, becoming so shallow that most men would faint from lack of air. In addition to his absolute certainty that he remained cloaked in darkness, there was the small matter of her blindness. Even if that was some sort of ruse on her part, he could not fathom that any normal human being would be able to see him standing there.

And yet, she continued to seemingly regard him, a pensive frown marring her smooth brow.

"Mellie? Is something wrong?" the male voice whispered from below. He'd already descended to the next level down and although most everyone had departed from the stage, he had the good sense to keep his tone low.

The sound of his voice apparently snapped her out of her trance. "I'm coming." She quickly spun on her heel and soon disappeared from sight.

Though his tensed muscles relaxed somewhat, Erik didn't dare expel even a breath of a sigh. The moment of their locked gaze had been eerie and disconcerting. So her name was Mellie.

A fond nickname, perhaps.

He had no doubt they would soon meet again.

A/N: The name of 'Sascha' is a little tribute to Kay's 'Phantom', though my Erik won't have the same background as her novel. It will be a combination of the sources I mentioned in the A/N of the Prologue as well as my own imagination.

I'm so happy that I've had a few reviews! I must admit I would have been sad if no one had responded. Many thanks go out to:

Demonia666: To answer your question, no, she won't be a singer as well. But thank you for the compliment on writing style.

elvinscarf: I'm hoping you meant "kool" in your review and not "lol". LOL!

cherioxxx: Hope you continue to read and that it holds your interest.