Erik had been laid to rest. The letter, his last letter, had crippled her emotionally. After reading it, she had flung it away, so as not to stain it with the flood of tears she shed.
"Erik," she moaned, "forgive me," she entreated his corpse.
I have gone mad, she thought, I seek comfort from the arms of a man who has passed. She laid her head upon his chest once more, wrapping her arms around him. Embracing him one last time, she had kneeled next to him. With a sudden motion, his mask had been peeled away, was cradled in her lap.
His face held no horror for her now. The paper thin flesh, gray with death, was relaxed into a peaceful expression. His yellow eyes, unnatural as they were, lay closed, his spider-eyelashes locked upon his hollow cheekbones. The ruin of his nose did not seem so gruesome now, and his terrible mouth was closed in the lock of death. His limbs were stiff.
Erik was dead.
Weeping, she removed the golden ring from her finger. Taking his hand, she slid the ring on, ever so slowly.
"Oh, Erik," she whispered, "I will never forget you."
Leaning over his death's head, she placed one last kiss upon his forehead. For a moment outside of time's control, her lips lingered on his face, and she relished the contact. Christine's tears splashed down on his face, dripping steadily.
Tucking the letter into her dress, she replaced the mask upon his face. In his arms, she cradled Don Juan Triumphant.
"You will exist in memory only, Erik. I have nothing but your song," she told him sadly, stroking his masked face. "I pray you are content," she choked upon her words. "I will always remember you, your voice, my Angel!"
"Always," she promised. Then she left the room, not daring to glace back even once.