Christine Daaé sat at the vanity of her dressing room, unsure of what to do. Her dear Raoul was waiting for her. No, that's not right. Her dear Raoul remained at the seaside in Perros-Guirec, her scarf in his hands. This Raoul was someone different, someone she did not know. The first night he returned to her after her debut in Hannibal, she felt a bit of the darkness in her heart lift. Here was another soul who remembered her departed Pappa, who could reminisce with her and in doing so bring him to life for just a moment. And yet, Raoul never wished to talk about Pappa. The only times he would bring up their past together, it seemed, was when he wanted something from her. When she was too exhausted after rehearsal to wish to go to dinner, he would mention what fun they had together as children and doesn't she want to experience that again? When she turned her head so his kisses would land chastely on her cheek, he would remind her of the time long ago when she received his affection with enthusiasm. When she twisted the gold band on her finger – her commitment to music and to her Angel – he would describe to her a different ring, one which her father would be so happy to see her wearing. After all, Pappa did love Raoul.

Thinking of the ring made her turn her gaze to her hand. The gold glinted in the candlelight, beautiful in its simplicity. She knows it does not mean what Erik wishes it meant, she never made that promise to him. And yet, looking at it after thinking of Raoul fills her with a deep sense of guilt. She devoted herself to music and yet, in these past few weeks since Raoul returned, how much time has she actually spent on it? When was the last time she even saw her Angel for a proper lesson? Of course, the murder of Buquet had put a damper on her enthusiasm. It was never spoken of between them, but she knew that Erik was responsible. Oh, her poor Erik, her fallen Angel. His life of cruelty had only prepared him to be cruel in turn. She was not particularly sad to see Buquet go, the way he acted towards the ballet rats was deplorable, yet it was the principle of the thing. How could she go on like nothing was wrong when her the hands her Maestro used to create such earth-shattering music had also been used to end a life? How could they go back to the way things were before?

And that was her problem, wasn't it? Dreamy Christine with her head in the clouds. Foolish Christine who could only think backwards, never forward. She loved Raoul because he was a part of her past with Pappa. Her soul saw its match in Erik, yet she knew that nothing she did would overcome the years he had spent without her. She was being torn in two, all because she did not know how to look to the future.

Well, the time had come to begin.

Christine stood from her vanity and went to the wardrobe in the corner, intent on surveying her options. As she did, though, a thought occurred to her. There were not only two paths laid out before her. She saw them in her mind's eye. One road, straight and narrow, leading to a mansion that loomed ominously from a hill, more a prison than a home. The other road, dark and winding, dipping further and further underground. And yet, right between, there was an expanse of forest. Uncharted, perhaps unsafe, but hers. Christine knew what she had to do.

Reaching for her cloak, she swung it on before frantically pulling paper and pen from her vanity drawer.

Dear Raoul,

My brave knight, the boy who so valiantly dove into the sea to fetch my scarf. I know you want to save me again – to ride off with me into the sunset. But Raoul, I simply cannot. I cannot commit myself to a life with you, a life without music. You own the fluttering heart of the fourteen year old girl I once was, but that is not enough to form a marriage on. I think, deep down, you know this.

All the best,

Your Little Lotte

The letter was stained with tears by the time she finished, wrapping it with a red ribbon and placing it prominently on her desk where she knew it would be easily found. Before she could leave, though, there was one more goodbye.

Christine crept to the edge of her mirror, the first rose her Angel had ever given her in hand. She had dried it after her triumph, reveling in the high of performance and the glow she felt in the face of Erik's pride. She knelt with the rose, placing it next to the place where the mirror slid open, knowing it would be the first thing he saw. She finally removed the golden ring, tying it to the stem with the black ribbon wrapped around it.

Vision blurred by tears, Christine turned her back on her dressing room, on the final mementos left to the men who had loved her, and left.