Gustave sat beside his father as they rode the ship crossing the sea. The weather was overcast, the sea underneath them dark yet the sea life seemed lacking after they left port some days ago. There had been some jelly fish couple miles off port, but nothing exquisite since.

He pushed his dark hair back from his forhead and looked to his father Erik. He had taken to wearing his mask again. Perhaps it was habit, but Gustave knew something was wrong beyond returning to France so Christine could be buried in the land that she loved the most. She had been dead almost a month now, but he had paid everyone responsible for seeing that her body was properly cared for before they could bury her.

"Father?"

"Yes?"

"What is wrong?" Gustave was near twenty, and handsome like his father.

He shook his head watching the water ripple over the rail. He was acting odd, and sooner or later they would figure it out.

"I'll tell you later,"

Gustave rose his brow and returned to watching the sea below them waiting for any sign of life.

"You've told Raoul that we are coming?"

"Yes," Gustave answered his father.

"Good," he answered without emotion.

"Dad,"

Erik threw him one of those looks that commanded obedience; no more inquiring.

Defeated for now, Gustave wandered back into the ship without another word.

Erik watched him leave, his heart broken, and lost. He had spent less than two decades with his love Christine . . . a battle he couldn't win. He had won her heart but she never divorced Raoul. Raoul won despite losing his wife and son.

Christine . . . a death he couldn't have anticipated in occurring. An early death brought on by some drunk in one of those new machines . . . a prototype of an "automotive". It drove Erik mad for ten days, both song and drink could barely keep the emotions down. Gustave had sat back and let his father have his melt down.

I should have known better, he tried to tell himself, but then again as he stared into the dark sea he recalled the day he contacted Madame Giry about the death of Christine.

"Dead? I am so sorry to hear this news." she paused, "She should be taken back to Paris. It was her home."

"But,"

"Erik, just do this for her. She loved France. It was you who seduced her into staying in America."

Erik barely met his old friend's gaze.

He broke off his train of thought as a newspaper carrier handed him a copy of a French newspaper. He politely tipped the man, and returned to the shelter of the cabins within to read the paper despite never having any interest before.

He joined his son, who was already scanning through his own copy of the paper, and frowned.

"What is it?" he glanced at his son.

"Nothing," he answered. It probably wasn't anything important since the section he was flicking through was the 'sports' section.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes,"

Erik shrugged and continued to read through the paper, and despite wanting to avoid any dark stories he found himself reading the obituaries.

What am I looking for? he asked himself trying to understnad why he was reading the dead section. He would be one of these people soon enough, but why . . . then the answer hit him hard as his eyes grazed over a familiar name.

Michelle Le'Clair'e Gregorsky.

He held his breath for a moment and read carefully. The name however was a reference to people who supported someone. His eyes flicked up the colum to the top of the particular record;

Alexi Renault Gregorsky

b. September 10th, 1852 d. November 17th 1917.

Lived with wife Michelle Le'Clair'e Gregorsky, and two children Symon Le'Clair'e and Rachell Gregorsky. Former soldier of Russia, bookkepper at 'Hauster's Books and Fine Records'. Dear friend with boss Ablert Hauster and wife Carlotta Hauster. Well respected . . .

Erik stopped reading.

"Father?" Gustave's brow rose, and with a finger, tipped his father's section of the newspaper down to see what had obviously caught his special attention. "Crap, you're reading the obituaries?"

Erik didn't answer.

"Father?"

"It's nothing," he answered, closing the pages, and folding his paper up back to its original state.

"A lie,"

"No," Erik answered, "A mishap, that's all."

Erik lay in bed that night however wondering about his old friend Michelle Le'Clair'e.

Gregorsky, he reminded himself as he stared up into the darkness of the cabin he shared with his son.

Did she miss him these days? What was she doing with the opera house since the gas fire that had caused the death of ninety people? It had been twenty years since he had seen her. She had to look way older than he could last remember, but it was hard to picture Michelle aging. Then again, he had never dreamed he would age either.

He remembered how he used to awaken with wet spots on his pillow, at first he was in disbelief that he could drool, but it turned out he cried in his sleep. After the death of Christine it had been for her, but before her . . . on the first few months away from the Opera Popular, he missed his old friend whom he had let down so badly while writing Don Juan. He had told her off-the last straw, when she confessed being with child.

He regretted not staying for her or not taking her away with him when he went to America.

But now he had Gustave, his son, and they were going to France together with Christine.

My son . . .

Symon Le'Clair'e.

He had never given Michelle a surname for their child he recalled, so it seemed fair to use her own. Would he know Symon if he passed him on the streets somewhere? Did he know that he wasn't Alexi Gregorsky's biological son?

Did it even matter to him?

Erik tried to sleep but found it hard; these old memories and thoughts stirred in his mind.

And with the war risen in Europe how safe was it really for them to return to Paris?

Erik decided that it would be unimportant until they arrived. He and his family would be catching a private coast from a coastal port and ride into Paris to the cemetry that her father was buried in. It was what she would have truly wanted.

Gustave watched his father over the following weeks trying to depict what it was that was nagging on his mind. Something in that newspaper had caught his attention but wasn't letting him go. He read every obituary and every name, but nothing listed made any sense to him. He gave up, after a week on the newspaper and simpoly waited for his father to open up. Which he didn't do until the ceremony for Christine's burial was complete, and she had been in the earth another week.

"So are you finally going to tell me now what's been bothering you since we were on the ship?"

Erik looked at his son, "It's that obvious?"

Gustave nodded shortly.

"Paris, is what's bothering me. This was my home too for a long time." he began, "I had a selcuded life outside of Christine, and I even had a very close friend over the Girys."

"And?"

"She," he began.

"Crap, you've been thinking of another woman?" Gustave felt suddenly betrayed, "Mother had only been dead three months and now you are thinking of someone else?"

"Not for my own benefit," he corrected his son, "Her husband is dead-that is why I was reading the obituaries on the ship."

Gustave mellowed out slightly but he was not convinced, "Mother always said she wouldn't take your name. Now I think I understand why." he paused, "What's her name?"

"Michelle,"

"And?"

"I betrayed her when she was with child long ago, Gustave," they walked to a nearby caf'e, "We wrote an opera titled Don Juan, and I killed nearly two hundred people because I was madly in love with your mother and had no way to split my heart in two."

Gustave listened carefully as they entered the caf'e and ordered two espressos. "Was Michelle's child yours?"

Erik didn't answer directly, "She believed so,"

"So I have some half sibling?"

He nodded, "Perhaps,"

"When were you going to tell me?"

Erik didn't answer as he took his small cup and went to a corner booth. Gustave followed.

"I didn't know if I was ever going to tell you," Erik answered, "I don't even know if they are still alive thanks to this world war. I expect that they might be-at least her children."

"You are using plural words, father."

"She has two children, as listed in the newspaper."

"The Gregorsky woman?" Erik looked at him as if he had spoke in blasphomy, "I read the paper through and through trying to figure out why the obituary meant so much to you, father. I pretty much have every name memorized on that particular page."

"Yes," Erik answered slowly, "Michelle Le'Clair'e Gregorsky," he chewed on the last part of her name slowly, "We spent a lot of time together,"

Gustave sat quietly in the caf'e with his father, "So what do you want to do about it?"

"Nothing," he answered.

Gustave was unconvinced as they sat there drinkig espresso and watching the people outside bustle about in quick succession.

"If it's alright with you Gustave, I want to stay here in Paris for a while,"

"Fair enough," he answered, "But if the war gets out of hand, we're out of here."

Erik didn't answer, his eyes watching every person who passed by searching through the faces.

Gustave knew why.

He was looking for his old friend.

Erik bought and apartment near an old abandoned opera house, that Gustave was unfamilar with, and barely went out. Perhaps because of his age, but he was very active inside. Gustave let his father do what he pleased, but over the following year they barely did anything of signifiacant importance, beyond keeping tabs of the news. Erik hardly spoke Michelle's name over the year, however he talked in his sleep.

Gustave thought at first that they had company, but as he stopped beside his father's bedroom, he knew that they were completely alone. He listened carefully . . . hearing both his mother's and Michelle's names mentioned. He couldn't hear what it was he was saying, but then again if he was really asleep, he may not know what it was he was saying anyways.

A year since their arrival had passed, and it was now December 1918, on the verge of 1919. They watched the snows come and go, the sounds of the militry as they marched by, the weather beating down on them, the war came through Paris and went out of Paris, but Gustave was becoming bored with hiding out as his father read newspapers reading obituaries and news articles dating as far back as 1915.

Gustave went out into the streets seeking solitude from his bumbling father, seeking answers to his thoughts. He pondered whether or not he should persue and speak to this old flame of Erik's and whether or not to tell him if he did find this woman.

But where would he start? Everything that his old friend had been was destroyed; the Opera Popular that Erik once lived in was abandoned, and the streets were not as bright as they once were. He frowned; no answer was going to come from having nothing to go on, but it was better than hiding within and waiting for nothing to come.

He walked without thinking and ended up in the old opera house any way. The floors had been swept, but it wasn't clean. It had no glory like his father had once described. There were broken windows, and shattered glass everywhere. Smoke stains ruined the walls and the entire building seemed to have fallen under a gray scale decor. Things were black with ruin, and some gray from dust.

Who would leave such a place in ruin?

He walked slowly through the building hearing nothing beyond the sound of the empty space, and not expecting anything out of the ordinary. There was just nothing.

Or so he thought.

He ended up entering the boys dormatory, and the breath was knocked out of him in suprise to find it with old imprints of dead people within. The sudden horror of what he saw frightened him; the shapes of people no more than sixteen he guessed long dead, and buried.

What kind of owner would have let all of these children die?

Then he heard something.

Footsteps.

Was this place haunted? Gustave turned and as quietly as he could neared the origin of the footsteps. As he got closer he found that it was more than a ghost, but a woman's step, by the soud the heel made on the old marble floors.

He sat in the nearest shadow and watched as an elder woman crossed the foyer and up the grand staircase. The woman was perhaps in her fifties . . . as old as his father, but most likely younger. Her hair was pale, but it seemed that it had once been a burning red color, and despite her age, she held herself with grace.

Could this be the mysterious Michelle mentioned by his father repeatedly?

He waited until she was out of sight, then slowly crept from the shadows and started up the same staircase. He would observe and if caught only then inquire who she was. But when he reached the top no one was there. He looked at the darkened floors trying to depict fresh footsteps but found none.

A chill ran up his spine as he stood there, heard a door close in the distance then the sound of a voice as it rang out, in a slightly less than perfected tone.

Age does that to voices, he told himself. But the voice sounded better with each minute that passed. It was awkward to Gustave. No old woman he knew sounded as pristine, save for his mother who was now long gone in Heaven.

Ghosts.

Gustave turned and left the opera house, dreading his own thoughts of supernatural powers at work.

Gustave never told his father about the phantom-like woman who sang like she was still young. In fact he never told his father that he had been within the Opera Popular. But it seemed like Erik knew, that he had gone in but didn't speak on it.

Then one afternoon he spoke up.

"There was a fire at the turn of the century that ruined all the work Michelle put into the opera house. A gas leak, the papers say, and ninety or so people were killed students and staff. No one knew,"

Gustave gulped recalling the frames of dead bodies.

"Any word whether or not your friend is still alive?"

Erik shook his head.

"I say we stay in town for another year," Erik said finally after some silence had passed, "Then I would like to move on. Perhaps return to America, and avoid the war as best as we can."

"You're avoiding it well hiding out here,"

Erik shook his head, "Demons haunt me here, Gustave, but I am not ready to leave. Not until I know she's gone from this world."

"Why don't you go look for her?"

"I cannot," Erik answered, "After the things I did to her it wouldn't be right."

"How about I find her then,"

"And do what exactally?"

Gustave gulped at the bitter sound in his father's voice, full of regret.

"Nothing, it was just a suggestion."

"She'll turn up in these pages sooner or later." he paused, "And when she does then we'll go . . . together."

But it was nearly seven months until the first sign of Michelle came up; an auction at the Opera Popular to sell off old antiquities. The building was going up on the list as well, along with a chandelier, posters, old costume jewelry, and trinkets from the day.

The reason was odd, but Erik seemed to understand better than Gustave.

"Her buisness partner's dead . . . died of an alcohol poisoning." Gustave read the name; Carlotta Dudacceli Hauster.

"Mother said you tortured a woman named Carlotta,"

"She was past her prime and wouldn't get over it,"

"How old does one have to be before they can no longer sing?"

"It depends. In her case though it was twenty-five."

Gustave nodded, "Can someone who's say . . . your age still sing good?"

"Your mother could,"

"But she's different,"

Erik sat in silence for a bit, "It's possible, but very few can." he looked at his son with question then shrugged, "It's possible."

"Do you want to go to the auction?"

Erik nodded.

"Very well then," he paused noticing it was an invitational event, "I shall request a couple of tickets to enter the auction."

Some week before the event, Gustave went out and bought two formal suits for he and his father to wear to the event. He paused only once as they walked back to the apartment, as his father's eyes dropped on a young woman with firey gold hair and green eyes. She carried a small parcell and an umbrella. Gustave noticed her as well but he sensed for a different reason than his father, and ushered his father forward to the apartment.

"She's pretty, isn't she?" Erik asked as they reached the corner of a street.

Gustave said nothing.

"Don't worry, I am not so old to be perverse, Gustave. I know you thought so."

"What did you see father?"

"The first actual sign of Michelle,"

"But that girl is younger than me father,"

"Yes, younger than you. The near mirror image of her mother though,"

Gustave gulped, "How do you know?"

"The hair and eyes . . . thos are her mother's," he paused, "Though Michelle had redder hair than that girl did."

"Then it's possible, you are imagining things?"

"Possible, but doubtful." he paused, "I want to see Christinen before we go to the auction, son. I want one last visit before I dare try speaking to Michelle."

"Have you even gone to see her?"

"Yes, but you're never home when I go. I didn't want you to fret,"

Gustave didn't protest as they walked the rest of the way to the apartment, "When do you want to see her?"

"The morning of the auction."

"Cutting it a bit close aren't we?"

Erik didn't answer as they entered the building and into their flat.

The leaves twisted in the wind, the morning of the auction had arrived, and Erik was already dressed for the occasion. He seemed more lively than he had been for some time, and it rose question in Gustave's mind, as he walked about in the apartment not fully dressed seeking breakfast, coffee, and the newspaper.

"You're up early,"

"I am going to Christine's tomb," Erik said pulling his silver enlaid cane from a vessel near the door.

"Aren't you going to wait for me?"

"No, my dear boy." Erik shivered slightly, "I need to see her alone. the things I must say shouldn't be heard by anyone other than your mother."

"Do you have your ticket for the auction?"

Erik touched the left side of his chest, where his jacket had an interior pocket.

"Very well," Gustave felt himself become slightly disapointed by this action his father was taking, "I shall meet you at the auction then."

"Very good then," Erik didn't wait a moment longer and left.

Gustave stood there for a long while watching the door wondering just what it was that had been so important that he had to do it without him.

Erik caught a horse drawn cab, and instructed to be taken to the cemetry. His old frame was still strong, and this day would either strengthen that frame or break it. It didn't matter so long as he closed all the doors he had left open in his life.

Christine would be first though.

He called the cab to stop for a moment so he could pick up a red rose for his dearly departed. The cab driver didn't mind stopping since Erik was paying for the entire trip, and waited patiently. When he returned, they continued on. The red rose was still in it's prime, and with one black silk ribbon, he tied a diamond ring to it-the one he had taken from her during the infamous masquerade ball. The one he could have taken with Michelle but chose otherwise. One he could have not totally wreaked and been a rather pleasant participant in.

Things in his life were begining to haunt him without Christine at his side, and there was only one person who could change the course of how much more he would have to deal with.

They reached the cemetry, and Erik stepped out, rose in one hand, cane in the other, he made his way down the autumn ridden sidewalk to Christine, whose tomb sat beside her father's. He tipped his black top hat to Christine's father then turned to his right and faced Christine, laying the red rose on the base of the elegant statue.

"Christine," he began. The name brought old pains up from his soul willing him to let tears fall down his face, "Christine, I am so sorry for all the things I did to you in life. The past haunts me every time I awaken. I miss you so . . . the past never existed until you were gone. You gave me a son, who had barely left my side since we came here to Paris." he paused confused inside, "I don't know why you really wanted to return here beyond being with your father. I don't think you'd approve of me these days anymore. I have been reading in old the world I left behind. There's so much that has happened. So many things I could have prevented."

He paused as the wind blew leaves around him like a small cyclone, "I miss you every day Christine, but I want you to forgive me for the things I mean to do today. I don't want you to be angry with me. You know as well as I do that I have another son, and it's time I met him. It'll mean seeing Michelle, and I know you weren't always find of her-mostly because of me, but . . . there was so much more when it was you and I." he paused, "I need your approval to see her and her family. A final closure before I can fully continue onwards."

The small wind tunnel ended suddenly and then there was nothing. Not a sound out in the world that could have prevented him from hearing a needle drop on the ground.

He took it as a sign of her approval, as a message to not continue to hide from the world. He rose from his knees, tears streaking his cheeks, as he leaned forward to kiss the headstone, "Good bye Christine, I shall see you soon."

He turned and walked back to where the carriage was waiting for him, then he noticed a name he hadn't seen when he entered;

Alexi Gregorsky.

He paused for only a moment, the simple tombstone with his name, the dates of his birth and death, as well as a basic message of whom he was and what he had become in life.

Loving father, loyal husband, grand friend and employee. May he rest in peace knowing he's in the hearts of all of those whom his life has touched.

He turned away, tipping his hat to him, and entered the carriage, knowing that Alexi would approve of Erik's move to seek out his old friend.

"Where to, ser?"

"The Opera Popular," Erik answered, handing him his first part of the few payments to come. Then a thought hit him, "Wait-back to the apartment building you picked me up from."

The cab driver didn't need directions.

But Erik had left something in the arpartment that gave him some hope of seeing Michelle one last time.

A single, slightly worn out velvet yellow rose.

Gustave stood amongst the crowd as the chandelier rose, it's electric power filled the room with an eerie glow, and the elder people around him gasped at the grand beauty of it. Raoul who had come to the event seemed lost in memory of the lights, as well as Madame Giry who despite her age seemed more bewildered. There was a small turnout for the event, but Raoul was barely attentive beyond the lights and his prize of a music box.

"We shall start the bidding at a hundred franks," the auctioneer called out.

Gustave didn't participate in any of the bids, until the end when number 679 was called out for a poster of the performance of Don Juan. It seemed only then did he become recognized by Madame Giry and Raoul. They watched as he won the poster, and then sat silent for the rest of the event.

Erik entered as the last bid was being called for on a mobile elephant prop from the performance of Hannible. Erik hid in the corner noticing the presence of Raoul and Madame Giry, and waitied until the crowd began to thin, and Raoul had left. Then he moved to stand beside his son.

"How was it?" his face troubled by seeing Raoul.

"Quite intriguing," he paused noticing that Erik's face hadn't left Raoul's frame.

"What is it?"

"I gave Michelle that music box for our child on the night I left,"

"I am sure there's a reason it was sold off today."

Erik nodded solemly as they stood watching the last of the people leave.

A boy and girl however were still discussing paperwork with the auctioneer paying him his due wages, and such.

The young boy . . . a young man to be precise noticed that Erik and Gustave hadn't left yet, and turned from the conversation to them.

"I am afraid that the auction is over, good sers."

Symon stared at them calmly noticing somthing vaguely familiar about the two, but he wasn't certain what. He had been called for war, and this as his last day before being deployed he didn't want any trouble.

"I am sorry, ser," the younger of the two men answered, holding the Don Juan poster board answered, "But I didn't hear the opera house itself being sold today."

This was true, as Michelle had decided to leave the building to her children as a frm of income that they could refurbish, remodel and use as a form of income.

"The Opera Popular was removed from the bids this morning."

"Of course,"

"Who owns this building?" the elder man asked.

"My mother, Madame Michelle Gregorsky."

The younger man looked at the elder in suprise.

Symon dropped down from the stage and walked to them, "I am her son, Symon," he stuck out his hand shaking each.

"I am Gustave," the younger answered, "and this is my father Erik."

"A pleasure to meet you both," he turned to the stage as his sister Rachell joined him, "This is my sister Rachell,"

They shook her hand.

"How can we help you?" Rachell asked.

"My father was hoping to see Madame Gregorsky," Gustave answered before his father could.

Rachell seemed lost suddenly as she she looked from them to Symon.

Symon knew why then, but held his tongue, "My mother is in her office," he shot his sister a look of silence, then gestured to the two men, "You may follow me, but I doubt she will take visitors,"

"Why's that?" Gustave asked as they followed him and Rachell out of the main theatre.

"She doesn't speak to anyone really when she comes here," Rachell answered quickly, "She comes here on her own time and does what she will."

"Does she sing?" Gustave asked.

Symon paused in step, and turned to face the Christine Daae's son, "She does-rather well in fact for being old."

Erik nodded, glancing at his son with some question, but they continued down a hallway where a voice rose as they moved closer.

"May I ask how you know our mother?" Rachell asked Erik trying to fill the silence beyond their mother's song.

"Isn't it obvious?" Symon stopped again turning to his sister answering before Erik could even part his lips to answer.

"But,"

"It's alright," Erik cut in before anyone else could speak. He waited a brief moment before anyone spoke, "I am an old friend of Michelle's."

"I'd say more than that," Symon remarked.

Gustave had noticed the obvious similarities but he also noticed that Rachell only showed the mother's looks.