Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is not mine, though I wish it were.
It had been roughly three full months since Christine's disappearance from the stage.
Days after he had asked for death, Erik was still tearing the notes from the violin, hidden away in his music room. Nadir stubbornly remained in the home on the lake, cooking Erik meals that wouldn't be eaten and feeding Ayesha; only when he gave Erik his food did the Persian open the door that separated him from the dark music beyond it. At times, Nadir stared at the barrier darkly when it had been pushed open a sliver by the cat. He could never gather enough courage to push open the door and say to Erik. . . he'd say to him. . .
And, of course, Nadir didn't know what he would say. There was nothing to say. What made him think there was? What exactly was there to say to a man who had lost all that mattered to him - the woman he loved, the person who kept him sane. This woman who had meant everything to him and, with her, he lost his will to live. The five years in that horrible prison in Persia was nothing compared to Erik's self-inflicted hell. And though Nadir meant for his actions to be seen in the kindest way, he knew too that they were foolish in the long-run.
Nadir spent his time in Erik's home by leafing through many of the books in his expansive library; or, at times, he would walk through the Opera House to watch rehearsals.
After Carlotta had left, the managers found themselves just barely making any profit. Their new lead soprano, Julia DeVan, through her voice was acceptable, failed to put any passion into the performance. The only thing profitable about her was her pretty face and full figure. The managers despaired without Carlotta and Christine, and, indeed, without the somewhat harsh direction of the presumably dead Opera Ghost. (Though how the "ghost" could die was evidently beyond the ballerinas' gossip.)
And yet, their Opera House remained alive for the time being. Their principal tenor, Monsieur James Emerson, was infuriatingly indifferent about whether the theatre would survive. He, of course, believed he could find work elsewhere should the opera house go under. This was quite true, much to the managers' dismay, for Emerson had an amazing vocal range and was a good actor. The problem with him, though, was that he unfortunately lacked the good looks that were needed for publicity. (Then again, Signor Piangi wasn't exactly the most handsome man either; but, since he was from a foreign nation, he had a very marketable accent.) Along with that, James Emerson falied to do anything worth printing in the newspaper, due mostly to the fact that he was a very dull person.
It was soon time to hold auditions anyway, and Firmin and Andre had tried to keep Christine Daae's oncoming try-out a secret. Likewise, the ballet chorus had been talking about it ever since the viscount's letter had arrived on the managers' desk. The Opera Populaire was buzzing with gossip and giggling ballerinas.
"I heard," said a rather energetic dancer, making it up as she went, "that she's leaving the Vicomte de Chagny for another man, and he doesn't even know it! He was so devoted to her, that she was able to actually convince him to let her return to the opera, so she can meet her lover in secret!"
"That poor man!" exclaimed the second dancer, shocked.
"Yes, yes," retorted another girl in a matter-of-factly tone. "Well, I heard that the Vicomte all but threw her out and forced her back to the opera so that he wouldn't have to support her. He had fallen in love with another woman of noble birth and told Miss Daae to pack up and leave!"
"That horrible man!" exclaimed the second dancer, disgusted.
"I wonder if odd things should start happening again," said a fourth darkly.
"What do you mean?" asked the first.
"Well. . . don't you remember all the things that happened when Christine was here? All the times she disappeared to Lord knows where. . ."
The other ballerinas, as if on cue, gasped in understanding.
"What if," said the fourth dancer with grand theatrics, "the Opera Ghost were to return!"
The four dancers were silent and giddy with fright. Glancing around cautiously, the tripped down the hall, sharing a celery stick between them. They all screamed enthusiastically when they all heard a loud step behind them and ran off, crying the same thing -
"He's here: The Phantom of the Opera!"