I.

We were in Rome when we learned that the Christine de Chagny had died. When we returned to Paris over a year later, we visited her grave. I knelt and said a prayer for my dear friend. Even after all these years, I still missed her. She was the closest companion of my youth in the Opera. Erik stood beside me, the dead leaves of the previous autumn swirling about us. Then, from his cloak, he drew a single red rose. On the stem, tied with a black ribbon, was a diamond ring. It bore a striking resemblance to the diamond engagement ring that the Vicomte had given Christine shortly after Il Muto.

As we left the cemetery, we saw a fine black automobile making its way towards the de Chagny plot. As it passed us, we saw its occupants...a chauffeur, a nurse, and a gentleman. The man looked old and frail. I heard Erik catch his breath. It was Raoul. How he had aged! He looked so much older than Erik, though he was at least ten years younger.

There was compassion in Erik's eyes as he saw his one-time rival pass, a broken, elderly man.

Erik took my hand in his and, smiling down at me, we walked to the gates and our carriage. We were going home to our little stone house, to my paintings and his music.

II.

November 30, 2004

It was a chilly gray day in New York City. At one of the world's most prestigious auction houses, a sale was in progress. The buyers gathered murmured among themselves in ancipation as the next lot was announced.

"Lot 31," came the auctioneer's voice, "a portrait by the French artist, Marguerite Giry. This painting, dated 1895, is believed to be a likeness of the artist's long-time companion, a reclusive, but brilliant composer known only as Erik."

The portrait was of a man. He was handsome, one might almost say beautiful in a dark, angelic sense. He had strong, fine features and luminous eyes. His hair was dark brown with silver tracing through it. A violin lay on the table beside him, one hand seemed to gently caress its polished curves.

Half of the man's face, however, was obscured by a shadow. Behind him, through a window, there was a glimpse of a garden filled with white roses.

- The End -

Author's Note: Just want to say a very sincere thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed my story. Your response has been wonderful and took me by surprise. This story started as a little something I scribbled at 2 a.m. when I couldn't sleep. I had no idea how it would turn out or that so many of you would enjoy it. Thank you so much!