Every time she gazed at her injured hand, Christine's mood fell. She had, quite literally, singlehandedly ruined what was supposed to be her love's first birthday celebration in decades. They ate together and he shook his head adamantly whenever she attempted to apologize for her clumsiness.

"You are safe. That is all that matters to me."

Both completely forgot about the promised outing and instead headed for their music room. After some warm-up scales, Christine's lingering sadness was replaced by anxiety as she excused herself for a moment. She walked upstairs and into what had once been her own room, reaching beneath the bed for the folder she knew would be there. Flipping through the sheets within it, she found the ones she was looking for and headed back to her husband.

"Meg brought me some of the things I left behind when she and her mother visited," she begun. She shyly handed him the score. "I never did get to sing this one for you."

"Don Juan Triumphant," he said, reading his own red handwriting at the top. "I thought it was sealed forever within the Populaire."

"Not Aminta's aria, as that was safe in my dressing room, then with the Girys. I didn't know… if you'd still want it, but this piece of your opera is my gift to you. Did you keep any of it?"

"None. The mob looking for me tore apart most, if not all, of my work. Aboveground, the copies that the fire didn't touch were all ripped to shreds by the rest of the cast. I saw all the pieces littering what remained of the building before we left – nothing salvageable." He slowly placed the sheets atop the piano. "It was my life's work, a product made of darkness."

His hands, by memory, began to play the same melody she had once heard in Paris from the piano seemingly playing on its own. It made her shudder - it truly was beautifully haunting, obscure music. Abruptly, Erik stopped, and she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. The way he jumped, as if startled, made her wince slightly.

"I apologize." Her voice was soft, and she treaded carefully with her words. "We can get rid of it, if it is what you wish."

"No, not yet," he muttered. "I must hear you sing it. Take the sheet music - I do not need it."

She gulped as she quickly read through the lyrics, face reddening. She remembered how suggestive the songs were; though she was now married and knew about what the aria and their duet had only - rather directly - hinted at, part of her couldn't help but blush just as she had the first moment she had practiced the song. Before Erik's Don Juan, she had never heard of anything that explored lust so scandalously, and it made her face heat to-date. Compose yourself, Christine. You're not a child.

Again, he played by memory, never missing a note. It had been so long since she'd sung it, but here, with the sheet music in her hands, everything about the piece came back to her as she went on.

When it ended, Christine closed her eyes, a hand on the piano for support. Erik abruptly stood, looking at his own hands on the keys, then walked the short distance to her in two strides and kissed her. The piece, Don Juan, and their haunted pasts were forgotten for the hours that followed.

Christine woke up with her arms outstretched over the place her husband should have been in, cold and alone. Through the haze of sleep, she sat up on their bed, clutching the sheets to her chest subconsciously as she attempted to adjust to the pitch black darkness of the bedroom. It was nighttime, but she didn't feel rested enough to know many hours had passed since her eyes had closed. She swung her feet to the side of the bed and quietly put on her slippers, then lit the candle on the bedside table. In the glow of the new light, she spotted her robe and slipped it on before taking the candle and going in search of Erik, her lace train treading behind her every step.

Of course, she found him at his desk, the fireplace lit to warm against the night chill – more often than not, he neglected tending to the fire, and she was surprised to find the room at a non-freezing temperature. Christine walked until she was right beside him, placing the candle on the surface before him, then her left hand on his arm, tenderly. Words were her only acknowledgment.

"You need your rest, Christine."

"I'll leave, then…" She smiled. "But only if you come back with me."

He shook his head. She glanced at the papers he held, moving so she was fully behind him and grasping his shoulders, then gave a sigh as she realized what he read. "Haunted by ghosts, dear?"

He said nothing. Suddenly, he grasped the music sheets tightly, moving as if he were to rip them in half. His head fell after a moment and so did the score in his hands. "This… it's a reminder of the Opera's monster, when I completely lost control. I can't bear to look at it anymore."

"I'm sorry for causing you so much grief," his wife said. "I shouldn't have given -"

"No, do not apologize," he interrupted. "I think it's better this way, then I know this music didn't fall in the wrong hands. And it never will."

He stood and walked towards the fire, Christine at his heels. Erik and stretched his hand towards the flame, the papers in his hand dangerously near it, but recoiled at the last second. She grasped it as well, right next to him, and slowly guided it back. Both let go at the same time and watched Aminta's aria be reduced to ashes, the sheets curling and darkening, destroying Erik's handwritten music and annotations.

"The Phantom," Erik said. "Is no more."

They held hands as the last of Don Juan Triumphant disappeared and Christine glanced at the clock. "It's not quite tomorrow yet. Happy birthday, my love."

"You really intend to make this a yearly thing."

"I do. Now, tell me - from what number are we counting from?"

He laughed, something that was becoming more and more common as days passed. She touched his cheek fondly. "I am already much too old."

Christine bit her lip. "You know that doesn't matter to me."

"You already gave me this date. What do you think is my age?"

"From what you told me…" She started recalling the day they'd left Paris, when they were aboard the train. Hadn't he said he must be around his late thirties? "I believe you are, give or take, about thirty-nine – from today, of course."

Erik thought to make another witty, self-deprecating remark about their eighteen-year gap, but he realized the significance of her efforts and abstained. He now had a real birthday, a real age; a real, living, loving bride. Just like any other man.

Instead, he simply kissed said wife's bandaged hand.

A/N: Since the moment it was written, many months ago, this chapter has been my favorite for all of Burying Ghosts. I can't pin down exactly what it is... something is just very special about it that makes it dear to me. I hope everyone likes it as much as I do. Thank you for your support!