Christine flew to her room as fast as her two, leather-booted feet would carry her, passing through each sterile-looking hallway and climbing up the creaking wooden staircase in her frenetic hurry. She nearly toppled little Gabriel Bassett, who had been spying upon her curiously and nosily between the spindly balusters. Though she would normally shout at him for his manners, her mind was too cluttered to even begin to form anything of coherence. She needed air, she needed peace, and she needed away from the office.

As she ran, her throat throbbed with a burning ball of nervous fear, developing hard and fast like a bulging, constricting, painful tumor, threatening to cut off her airway and force the life from her chest. She stopped for only a moment at the top of the stairs to double over the balustrade; her heartbeat flushed fire through each of her thousand veins, coming to a halt at her brain where a thundering ache was already beginning to develop. She choked, breathing in for the first time since she had first been called down to the office, and took off again.

Her eyes were leaking before she even reached Room Five and though she heard fourteen simultaneous gasps in her direction, she flew open the window at her bedside and climbed out onto the room's only fire escape. The window was slammed back shut behind her, to close off any and all curiosity. The air was nearly frigid as the solstice wind whipped about and blew upon her, stinging her face with its violent chill and causing her eyes to water over from the cold. She wrapped her arms around her middle and sat down upon the step, worrying naught if the metal was creaky and decaying.

There, in the sun of the spring, did she finally allow herself to cry.

She buried her face in the pink-colored secondhand skirts, hating herself even more for the snot and salt that seeped into the fabric. It was her only nice dress, and now would be stained again, possibly even ruined forever. If her Trustee saw her in her current state, all red and sore and miserable-looking, he would surely rescind his offer for schooling, thinking even less of her for her immodest display of patheticism. Why, oh why did he put this pressure upon her? He hated her already for being born a girl, and yet had given her a gift unlike any other: the gift of a life beyond the orphanage. Christine's mind was a whirl.

She lifted her head from her skirts and positioned her still-wobbling chin at her knees in an effort to calm herself. Her hair was unpinned and its curly brown ends kissed upon her cheeks and forehead as the wind brushed through the Baltimore skyline. "Relax, my child," the wind whispered into her ears. She sniffled in response.

Her hand reached up to lay upon her temple, where her veins pumped rapidly below her hairline, when she found her hands were no longer trembling. She still held tight to her knees, holding herself together like a pot of broken china, forged together with molten gold in an effort to hide its many cracks.

When the river of tears had finally ebbed, she at last allowed herself to consider everything that had occurred in the past half-hour: how her life had inexplicably and forever been changed; how her fate had been uprooted and bettered, all through the generosity of a man whose face and name she did not know.

The tumor in her throat was no longer pounding, yet her head still ached with the heaviness of a languid cry. She looked out onto the horizon line, which was clogged with industrial style steel buildings and made blurry through tears; the city was peppered with a hundred bustling pedestrians and a dozen automobiles. She regained her mind through counting each of them, trying to take special notice of any and all tall, shadowy men.

A light-colored buggy passed just below her hideaway and she focused upon it as it stopped at the intersection under her feet, watching it pause for a moment before escaping into the roadway with a thick puff breathing out from its back engine. Here, upon her fire escape, both alone and cold, she felt as though she were living in the black exhaust of an automobile, breathing in the heavy-hot cloud of smoke while her eyes saw nothing but a hazy shadow of black. She was given an opportunity she would be foolish to refuse, yet why was it so hard for her to accept?

Christine breathed in the spring air, letting its pleasant chill fall downwards into her expanding lungs; there was a peculiar, familiar taste at the back of her tongue which steadied her soul and ground her back to life. It was the flavor of the city: earthy steel and clay brick, contradicted yet enhanced by the sweet scents of cherry blossoms and fresh pastries. The air grew stale in her chest before she exhaled out into a soft, musical sigh.

She stretched her legs outward to hang just barely off of the black metal fire escape, and her shoelaces waivered around aimlessly in the wind, floating along with the breeze. She reached forward to tie a loosened lace before tucking its edge back into the bootshaft securely. Often, she had escaped out to the ledge to allow her mind to wander just as it did now. It was the only place of peace in a home surrounded by ninety-seven orphan siblings, and though she was sure the lot of them were whispering and gossiping on the other side of the wall, she was at least alone now, in the company of the only person who she could truly trust with her thoughts.

Christine had not always been alone. Unlike most of the other orphans at the Asylum, she remembered a time, long ago and foggy in memory, when she was fed well and kept warm by the comforting arms of a father. Her hand fell to her chest when she remembered Mrs. Giry's words from earlier that afternoon.

Your father would have wanted this, Christine.

Hanging from a chain around her neck and balancing just above her heart was a small silver locket, inscribed with the last thing left from Gustav Daae - the first and final gift she had ever been given from him: the gift of her name. Daae, the inscription read in swooping, curling letters against her thumb. It was a curious thing, in the orphanage, to have a hereditary namesake. Most of the children had names that were picked at random from encyclopedias or holy books; some of the younger ones bore the first name of a Trustee, but only if they were kind and charitable, for Mrs. Giry would not name any of her little charges after someone who she did not deem worthy. Christine's name was entirely her own, chosen with love by the man and woman who loved her most and left her too soon.

Her father, her poor late father, had instilled in her a great love for music, and it was music that had connected her to her Trustee, whether or not Christine was willing or ready to accept it. This man, this mysterious, generous man, had heard her gift and was wanting, demanding, that she continue to advance upon it. Mrs. Giry was right; her father would have wanted this for her.

It was a sigh of relief when her mind had been made up; the civil war in her head ended without conflict. Her shoulders slumped and she exhaled through her nose, finally having reached her answer. The past hour had been difficult, and though she knew nothing of the future ahead of her, she was ready to accept her changed fate.

As Christine Daae exited the Calverton Orphan Asylum, her arms were full and heavy as she carried a single, wooden trunk against her chest. The trunk was half-full of all her possessions and two new, beautiful dresses her Trustee had commissioned for her, both of which were individually worth twice as much and were doubly as beautiful as anything else she had ever owned before. Mr. John Smith had insisted upon a fitting of dresses for his beneficiary, to which Christine tried to adamantly refuse - she had never received anything truthfully new before, and was embarrassed by the offer - but the appointments had already been set through an arrangement made between Mrs. Giry and Mr. Smith's secretary, and so she had not been able to voice her concerns before she was sent off to the tailor. Two new dresses and a small fortune's worth of skirts and blouses had been delivered to Calverton's doorstep the next week.

She wore now a tan colored skirt and high-necked, white buttoned blouse befitting a middle class woman three steps higher than she had ever even thought to be presented as, and she wondered now what she must look like to all ninety-seven of her siblings. Her reflection in the cab windshield showed a girl she was not at all familiar with; her normal mess of hair had been coiffed and braided into a feminine swirl at her nape, and a large, luxurious travel hat was pinned against her temple, blocking out the rays of spring sun. Her face was soft and lovely, perfected by rosy, nearly-shy cheeks and smiling lips. The image of this woman, viewed by her own eyes, was - without a doubt - nearly shocking to look at.

She pulled away from her reflection to focus for the last time on the building she had called home for the seven years, worrying her lip between her teeth as she craned her neck upwards towards her former bedroom window. "Second Floor, Room Five, Bed Six" she remembered the first time she had heard the words, spoken to her just a single day after her father's death. She had retreated miserably to the room for the first time that evening and now, nearly eight years later, she took her final steps out. It was strangely liberating yet peculiarly sobering to finally leave.

From afar, she could see there were nose-prints fogging the second-storey window from her roommates curiosity, yet she could not see or make out any faces at the glass. It was half-past noon now and each of them were likely in the dining hall, having so easily forgotten their eldest foster sister in favor of their rumbling stomachs. This, Christine knew, was the lasting impact she had made upon the orphanage. She had been forgotten over something as unlovable as mincemeat pie.

Her parting words from Mrs. Giry had been short and to the point, mirroring nearly every conversation Christine ever had with the woman. She had not been asked to write or to send postcards, instead only advised to keep respectable and mindful, and to never, ever bring shame upon the orphanage's name. Christine had nodded wordlessly and then was promptly sent out to wait for the cab.

"Miss," The driver said to her, pulling from her own mind. "Are you ready?"

Christine's cheeks turned pinker with embarrassment. "Oh," she breathed out a shy laugh at herself, then nodded affirmatively. She watched as he loaded and strapped her trunk onto the back of the buggy, then took his given hand to climb into the seat above the wheel.

She held onto her own hat as they rode out of the lot and into the streets, though the wind was particularly peaceful that day. She had never owned a hat before, or at least not one that was new and entirely hers, and did not want it flying off with an unexpected gust of wind or a bump in the cobblestone. As they passed through the Asylum's spindly metal gates, Christine allowed herself to lean back into her seat and observe the sights and sounds of the city, dreaming of the wealth her Trustee must have in order to willingly splurge on a private cab for some silly, unknown girl.

Just outside the gates, the buggy passed the front of the orphanage and Christine rested her cheek against the silver seat rail, watching as each of the building's bricks grew smaller and more distant until she could scarcely make out any at all. How many years she had spent there, never to count all of the grooves in the wooden floors or the dents in its brick walls. There was a small pang of guilt, deep within her chest, for the loss of that knowledge, and she nearly wanted to jump from the moving cab to count each of them one by one, but as the buggy rounded a curve onto another road, the building and the possibility of returning receded.

Christine looked ahead now, toward the roadway and toward the future, and watched each of the many commuting pedestrians as they darted in and out of the roadway. She was one of them now: a normal girl, free from her old life, and no longer associated with the guilty stain of an orphan upbringing. Here and in her schooling, she could be whoever she wanted to be, and despite her previous anxieties, Christine was excited.

Their carriage passed a man with a top hat who walked swiftly in the direction they had left from, and her heart fluttered for only a moment when she saw him first. The man wore a similar shade around his neck to the spidery man she had seen a month prior, but upon analyzing his short-statured form, her heart knew that this man was nothing more than a traveling salesman.

She shook her head, nearly laughing at herself. Whoever this man was, this mysterious John Smith, he had done well to keep his anonymity. Despite her asks and investigation, Christine knew no more of him now than she did a month ago.

As she traveled through the city, she considered her generous patron, the kind, wealthy, girl-hating shadow of a man that she had only barely seen once in her life. He was tall and lanky, of that she was certain, but what of his interests? Of his demeanor? Of his face? She imagined him handsome and kind-looking, perhaps with a perfectly straight nose befitting many of the upper class elite. Strong and perfect, she was sure, with a rounded tip and the most handsome bump at the center of its bridge. He'd have crystalline blue eyes that held all of his innermost emotions and thoughts, and still held a cheeky, youthful gleam despite his old age. His mouth would be nearly perfectly straight, but would hang downwards at the corners, giving him a permanently attractive and dashing pirate scowl. Mr. Smith was old, yet handsome in a way that a much loved grandfather was, though Christine never truly had a grandfather to look at.

And what of his brain? The brilliant, insightful mind that had heard her sing from afar. He must know music, she was sure of it. She wondered if he was a composer, or perhaps just a patron of the arts with a finely-tuned ear for voice.

She closed her eyes as she imagined, a little smile already forming upon her lips.

Her letters would always be sent to Baltimore, in the same city she new rode through, and she let herself wonder if he had one of those silly city accents Mrs. Giry had. Was he a native? Was he as fond of Poe's works as she was? Did he have a beautiful mansion home overlooking the harbor?

In her mind, she pieced together all the clues Mrs. Giry had accidentally left her. He was stubborn (as most wealthy, girl-hating men were) and believed in secrets, clearly not willing to indulge those with curious minds. Still, as she considered his faults, she had to appreciate the man. He had uprooted and changed her life for the better, for she was now receiving an education, a future, and enough money in allowance that if she saved it all wisely, she would not need to worry over a bill for the next several years of her life.

So many questions left unanswered, Christine thought in a sigh, dreaming of her mysterious benefactor.

The buggy stopped just as Christine was beginning to drift off to sleep. It was not a long ride, just less than an hour, yet Christine had risen early with the sun. The effects of travel and stress began to wear on her, and along with the gentle swaying of the carriage throughout the Baltimore streets, she nearly dozed off.

She had only a moment to right herself awake before being called from the carriage. The trunk was thrust again into her arms, and she nearly dropped it on her feet and toppled over out of unexpected surprise. She turned to thank the man, the pale-skinned driver whose name she did not catch, but he was already back atop the buggy and on his way to the next stop of his route before she could open her mouth to speak. Her gloved hand raised slightly, nearly awkwardly, to wave at his back, silently sending her thanks in his disappearing direction.

The box in her arms was heavier than before as she found herself alone and waiting at the curb. She hadn't been given any instructions beyond the short briefing in the orphanage office, so a tinge of fear began to creep up the back of her spine. She swallowed down her anxieties, nearly choking into a cough as it went down, and turned to face the building she now called home.

Christine gasped at the sight, mouth slightly agape and her eyes wide in wonder, and she found her fears entirely gone. The building stood only two storeys above her form and flat upon Belvedere street, yet it looked as if it could have belonged higher and higher above as a parthenon in the heavens; it was a castle owed to the gods, a white-marbled school flanked between black steel. Never before had Christine even considered such beauty, and now she would claim it as home.

A vibration beat within her chest as she took in the building that signified her new life; it rose and fell in a soft, melodic crescendo, circling her heart in its many thumping veins, and climbed upwards in a high note that flooded her cheeks and chest with pink. Her heart no longer played a sad song. Here, her heart was a choir, singing blissful, beautiful music.

On a cloud of wonder, her feet set her to the dark-stained maplewood door, taking each of her steps with amazement and pleasure. How often, she wondered, would she climb up the marble steps, and in whose footsteps did she follow? She imagined a likeness of Mozart or Bach, two musical maestros who died a lifetime before her own and lived in a land an ocean away. A thrill in her head caused her smile when she thought of the adventures that her education would lead to.

A kind faculty member led her to her bedroom: a single-bunked dormitory on the far west wing, up in a tower that looked high above the clouds. It was almost bewildering to look out the window for the first time, yet the breeze upon her cheeks and the sights of the school below her were welcoming and convinced her to keep the window propped.

It was unusual, she was told, to have a single dormitory as a Freshman, but due to a small entrance class and the recent development of a new dormitory wing, she was rendered very fortunate. Christine never had a room to herself before, having spent her life with so many others, so even the thought of a single bed was shocking; she was very fortunate indeed. The staff member could not seem to grasp why Christine's smile was so big.

The bed was plush and warm as she sat down upon the pink comforter (which was yet another gift from her nameless and thankless benefactor), and it was softer than a cloud. From her spot on the bed, she could just barely see through the window and out to the city. The sounds of automobiles and conversation filled the room and it nearly pulled her into a peaceful sleep, but she reminded herself she needed to write, so she stretched up and off the bed to go to the small wooden writing desk against the front wall.

A fresh sheet of notebook paper was waiting for her, almost as if expecting her, and she sat down before it. Her head slumped into her hand as she thought of the words to write, and it came to her automatically. He would likely not ever indulge her by reading or replying, so she thought of her letters like a diary of sorts: a secret, private correspondence between herself and a non-respondent, faceless man. She penned the letter from a pot of black ink, and set it aside for delivery the next morning.

From the Desk of Christine Daae to "Mr. John Smith"

Garnier Conservatory

Room 111

30th May 1905

Dear Kind Trustee Who Sends Orphans to College,

I have arrived at the Garnier School of Music just this afternoon! It is all so beautiful and wonderful, Mr. Smith, and it is nearly unbelievable that this is where I get to live. I have to pinch myself whenever I think about it!

Classes do not begin until Monday, so I am using the next three days to settle in and meet some of the other girls. I do not have much to unpack, but I'll be sure to hang up each of the lovely dresses and skirts you commissioned for me. It's odd to see a second door in my bedroom - I've never had a closet before. It might be trivial, as I am quite sure you have a hundred closets in each room, but I can't help it. I'll have to buy a camera to show you!

It seems so strange to be writing to a man I do not know. It seems so strange to be writing at all, actually - I don't think I've ever written more than one in my entire life, so please do not mind any errors I may be making or if this letter is not the proper form.

Before leaving Calverton this morning, Mrs. Giry and I had a very serious talk. She told me how I must behave away from the orphanage and how I must always be respectful towards the kind gentleman who has supported my education and has already done so much for me.

But how can I be respectful towards a man who wishes to be called something as plain and unadventurous as "Mr. John Smith?" Could you not have picked out a name with a little more personality? I might as well be writing to Dear Mr. Clothespole or Mr. Tall-Man.

I have been thinking about you a great deal since you last came to Calverton, yet I find I still know so little about you; there are only three things I know for a certain:

I. You are tall.

II. You are rich.

III. You hate girls.

I suppose I might call you Mr. Tall Rich Girl-Hater, but I find it horribly offensive to the both of us. After all, I am a girl, and you might not be rich forever! You will, however, stay tall your entire life, so I have decided to call you something representative of this. You must forgive me if that was not you I saw at the front gate, but Mr. Smith, I've already begun to imagine you as tall and spindly-legged as a spider, so Mr. Daddy-Long-Legs shall be it for you! You'll keep this name just between us, won't you? It's just a silly pet name, so please don't be disturbed or tell Mrs. Giry.

I am running out of space on this letter and I do wish to explore the campus before classes begin, so I am closing off here. I wish you well, Daddy Long Legs, I hope you wish the same for your charge.

Yours most respectfully (feel free to tell Mrs. Giry just how respectfully!),

Christine Daae

A/N: Hoping you are enjoying this story so far! Please don't forget to review and let me know what you think :) Christine's letter is pulled from the original novel, though with tweaks and edits.

The Garnier Conservatory is based off of the Peabody Institute in Baltimore, which is the oldest music conservatory in the United States. This school was designed to be a school of music, teaching both arts and theatre as well as normal school subjects like history, science, etc. Fun fun fact: Rebecca Pitcher (who played Christine on Broadway) graduated from this school.

Christine's room is numbered 111, which is considered an "angel number," which is fitting. The date on her letter is Jeanne D'Arc (St. Joan of Arc)'s feast day. I often liken Christine to this saint, I am sure you can see why!

Thank you to Astrodomine who gave this chapter a read-through!