Erik imagined that Paris at half-past midnight was much like Paris at any other time of the day. An astonishing number of people were out and about. Carriages rolled along the streets. Most were returning home, but were occasionally headed out towards new adventures. Men walked, alone or in groups, in home-spun or superfine.

Erik, with practiced ease, melted into the shadows. He resisted the inclination to set a fast pace. Speed, he reminded himself, was not needed. He was not attending to business. He was not running for the sake of his life or liberty. He was out for a pleasure stroll.

What a wholly novel idea.

When, in his entire life, had he simply walked out of doors for the sheer joy of it?

Never.

Never—this little outing included. His feelings were far closer to panic than pleasure. No one paid him the smallest bit of attention, but Erik was positively sure someone was watching him. More than watching, perhaps: stalking, hunting.

Erik fingered the length of catgut concealed in his coat sleeve. It was a morbid amusement to him that his Punjab lassoes had something in common with his musical instruments. This particular piece came from a cello, if he was not mistaken.

This train of thought did not comfort him, but it did distract him.

Without the intention of doing so, he followed the path he had so long ago imagined walking with Christine.
He winced at the thought of her name. Erik had become quite adept at forgetting details about the incident. Immediately following, he had frequently relived the entire experience. He would strike a key on his piano and end up hearing the imperfect scale Christine had sung in their first lesson together. He would awake in his coffin, with the ghost of her kiss on his brow. In his bleakest moment, he was sure the bronze cricket on the mantle was chirping…

He had lived with the sensate misery for weeks, expecting an imminent release by death. But time marched on, death failed to come, and the incident started to fade and blur. Now, instead of a hundred small reminders, Erik had only to suffer with one, composite miasma of pain and guilt.

He considered this to be an improvement. It was only after this metamorphosis took place that he became convinced that he was, in fact, alive. That surprise had been compounded by the realization that he would soon be (something like) fifty.

Fifty! Far too old to live out his remaining years as a lovesick puppy! Erik had made a sort of bet with himself at that point. If he lived to see his birthday, he would be obliged to find a way to continue living. He might even attempt to live well. Of course, if he did not live to see his birthday, the rest was immaterial.

Now came the question: what ought he do with his remaining years?

He could scarcely continue walking by the Seine for the rest of his life.

The opera was the obvious choice. It would take precious little to persuade the company that the infamous Ghost had returned, as supernatural and malevolent as ever. He was convinced that even the managers would play their appropriate roles this time: Richard had become increasingly neurotic and superstitious over the last two years; Moncharmin now acted as a sort of Manager-at-Large from his villa on the Amalfi Coast. His agent in Paris was his pliable young nephew, who seemed to have a talent for following instructions.

That was promising.

It had been twenty-two years since construction had first started on what would become the Palais Garnier. In that time, Erik had woven himself seamlessly into the very foundation of the institution. True, he had withdrawn in the past years—but every professional required a sabbatical now and then, did they not?

It was tempting to turn back and start reminding those fair souls at the Palais Garnier of his existence right away. But, really, what was the hurry?

Erik continued to walk, listening to the movement of the water and the general hum of the city. He found himself humming along with them.

Didier Moncharmin was young, but not given over to the foolish notions of supernaturalism that seemed to permeate his Opera. Yes, he did think of the Garnier as his Opera. While Uncle Armand only concerned himself with bottom lines and Monsieur Richard stuck to the social aspects of the business, Didier had made it his business to know the Opera and make it a success.

It had been six months of smooth sailing since Didier's appointment to 'assist' his uncle. But then—ah! It had seemed like such a fine idea at the time to really familiarize himself with the various laws and bylaws of the Opera. Responsible and all together without danger!

In retrospect, Didier pinpointed reading the memorandum-book and its accompanying clauses as a turning point. Or perhaps it was his following inquiry to his uncle, or the telegram he received in response. Whatever was the cause, Didier started to hear of the Opera Ghost from all parts of the company.

Richard still refused to speak on the matter, resolutely crossing himself and muttering prayers when Didier was occasioned to press for answers. Didier resolved not to bring up the matter with him again after seeing just how fragile the poor man's health was. Richard had all but gone into hysterics when Didier had simply asked if he was in possession of a safety-pin.

His other lines of inquiry were met with less panic but were hardly more helpful. The chorus and ballet rats appeared to blame everything from sore throats and broken toes to missing hair ribbons on the Phantom. The set changers and designers insisted that the shade was murderous. The musicians tut-tutted that description, and claimed that the ghost had been known to repair damaged instruments from time to time.

But the ghost, they all said, had lost interest in the opera. He was seldom seen and never caused much mischief anymore. The change had happened around the same time the Count de Changy had died, allegedly but unprovably at the hand of his younger brother. Said younger brother had then eloped with a chorus girl who had been set on a course to stardom. That had been something of a scandal, Didier recalled, one that his uncle had chosen not to capitalize on.

Didier dismissed the stories that attempted to tie the ghost mythos to the 'Daaé incident.' Beyond certain coincidences of dates, the idea was patently absurd.

At the conclusion of his investigation, Didier determined that it did not matter what the Opera Ghost was. What mattered was the he no longer appeared to demand a salary or make a nuisance of himself.

Still, Didier could not repress a chill when his office door slammed shut, seemingly of its own accord, on Monday morning.

On the Sunday following Erik's birthday, he started his walk around two o'clock in the morning. Midnight had a nice bit of poetic resonance, but, in practice, was not the ideal time to go out.

After some weeks of experimentation, he found that four o'clock was the right time to leave the Opera House. It was a nice balance of pre-dawn quiet and respectable bustle. Those who were out were out with a purpose, quite disinclined to pay attention to anyone else.

Erik was glad of this, for his Sunday walks had become important to him. Normal men with normal faces and normal lives went walking on Sundays, though perhaps not quite so early. And if there was one thing Erik craved, it was normalcy. He had mistaken that desire for many other things over the years— love, work, usefulness—but he had at long last determined that it was simply normalcy he wanted.

He did not suppose that haunting an Opera House was a typical career choice, but one had to make do with what one had on hand. Speaking of the company, they were falling in line most satisfactorily. Even little Moncharmin seemed to be developing a proper fear of the phantom.

It would soon be time to make his presence known in a more definitive fashion—and claim his salary in the meantime. It wasn't that Erik needed the money, or even wanted it. But what was a career without payment? A hobby—and that would not do.

He stood on one of the Seine's many bridges until the sun started to rise in earnest. Soon there would be too many people out, and the panic and paranoia would attach themselves to Erik too strongly. He pulled his hat down a little further and started back, not a moment too soon.

Early mass was ending at Notre Dame, and a good number of the parishioners were walking towards to the river banks. They were a mostly solemn bunch, silent and unassuming.

One woman stayed ahead of the crowd with quick, wide steps, heading in the direction of Erik's bridge. She was dressed in black, like most of the other women. A white scarf edged with tatting was thrown carelessly over her hair and across her shoulders. She was unremarkable, save for her treatment of her rosary. She held the crucifix firmly, letting the beads swing. Occasionally, she would twist her hand with a bit too much force, causing the decades to wind around her wrist. She wielded it less like a sacred object and more like a weapon.

Erik moved to the side to avoid collision, keeping his own steps even and long. He thought they would pass without incident, and he was nearly correct.

"Good morning, Monsieur!" She was the first person in a month of Sunday morning walks to address Erik. It was a simple thing, a pleasantry uttered without thought and without meaning.

They were also the first words directed to Erik in... well, a very long time.

"Good morning," he replied quietly, and after some hesitation, "Madame."

He sped through his return walk, avoiding contact, and keeping his eyes fixed on the cobblestones. He did not look up until he was back in the catacombs beneath the Opera House.

Perhaps four o'clock was not the ideal time for his walks, but that was a thought for another Sunday.