Madame Giry had come as she always did, alone. The rapping of her cane upon the stone echoed in the silence, for it stood as the only requiem for the dead genius. She sighed deeply. The blood had dried and stiffened on his clothing and in his brown hair. The expression on his malformed face was that of a sort of frightened peace. Madame Giry, who knew the complexity of Erik's emotions all too well, knew the source of this strange, yet beautiful appearance. He was frightened of the judgment that awaited him beyond our world, but as peace knowing the life of sorrow was at last ending. The shadow of morbidity that seemed to hang in the vastness of the underground layer at last seemed gone. When Meg had told her of the events that had occurred, Madame Giry had been, to say the least, surprised. By the disappointed looks from the returning soldiers, she'd thought Erik had, once again, eluded those who sought him out. But then Miss Daeë had come also, with the young Vicomte. How old she seemed, how wasted. She had even noticed the blood on the young singer's white dress, but Madame Giry had chosen to remain naïve. But then Meg told her what had taken place. Madame Giry marveled at her daughter's sensitivity when Meg told of how she'd tried to comfort him.
Now here she stood, Erik broken at her feet. All she'd wanted was to hide him. Free this tortured soul from the cruelties of the world. She knew that Erik would not want her to this of his death as her failure. He had, after all, chosen to meet his fate, instead of fleeing from it. Erik could always be described in one word: extreme. Born with extreme talent and extreme compassion, he had also, through his life of ruin, become extremely sensitive and extremely secretive. And being only one man, life filled with such emotion was a likely candidate for madness. He knew how to feel, and certainly how to love, but when called upon to act, all he knew was hatred.
Going about his organ, looking through his things, she came upon a small piece of paper. It seemed at first to have no significance. It contained only once sentence, written in his signature red ink. Is this coffin ever after? it read. It lay on top of his Don Juan score, so it must have been recent. She knelt down and cradled him in her arms for a minute, her last act to the Phantom an act of motherly sorrow.
Though the aged woman looked frail, she had little trouble carrying the man. Beneath her shrouding shawl and black dressed were aged, yet powerful limbs toned and strengthened by years of ballet. And as she carried him out of the tunnel in the night, she realized that she'd left his mask behind. She stood for several moments, torn between whether or not to bury it with him. He hated it and needed it. He was the mask, and it was he. Therewas no Phantom without that infamous mask. She at last decided to leave it. He would not need it in the next world.
Snow fell outside the Paris Opera House. She came out of the tunnel to a small courtyard in the back. Upon hearing of poor Erik's death, she'd convinced Joseph Buquet's replacement to dig a grave and craft a coffin. He was gone by the time she came out. She sighed, seeing the crude wooden box that was to hide him away forever. If his face had been normal, he would be a renowned genius to the art world, and would be buried in splendor. But here, he was left with a lonely grave and a poor coffin. She gently placed the musician's broken body in the box. She saw Meg patiently waiting in her little blue cloak. She had a bowl of water and a white cloth. The dancer knelt down in the snow, next to the coffin. Without asking for permission, she dipped the cloth in the water and began to wash off the blood on his face and in his hair. Madame Giry almost smiled. Her daughter was careful, as if she did not wish to hurt him. "There. Much better." She whispered.
Madame Giry and Meg looked upon the Phantom one last time, before Madame Giry nailed the lid to the coffin. "Goodbye, Erik." Said Madame Giry, with an air of wistfulness. Meg looked at her in confusion. "Yes, he had a name." she replied simply But after she was done, she was faced with a dilemma. How would she get the coffin into the hole? She couldn't just push it in. It might break or land on its side. She heard a door open. Out walked the managers themselves, M. Andre and M. Firmin. They too had been notified of Erik's death. Madame Giry knew Andre to be slightly more sensitive to his surroundings than Firmin. Both men nodded to her as they came out. "We thought you might be out here." Said Andre, staring in awe at the coffin. "This is?…" asked Firmin. Madame Giry nodded. "Your Opera Ghost, monsieur."
There was an uncomfortable silence that followed. "Gentlemen, I have a problem. I cannot get this coffin into the ground by myself." Madame Giry did not ask for their help. But they seemed to respond. "I'll get some rope." Said Firmin, leaving the three of them alone. Andre knelt down beside the coffin, touching it gingerly, as of it were hot. "Coffins always seem so small." He said softly. "He must have had a hard life." Madame Giry savored his compassion. It was a warm welcome. She nodded again as she stood. Soon, Firmin returned with two long pieces of rope. They were tightly tied to each end of the coffin and it was slowly lowered into the ground. They left Madame Giry and Meg shovel the dirt onto the grave. The two dancers would be the Phantom of the Opera's soul mourners.
Madame Giry returned the next day to find a fresh red rose with a beautiful diamond ring on the stem. It stood out brightly in the snow, the rose as red as blood and the ring as bright as the stars. She smiled. As she walked away, she thought: Is this coffin ever after? But remembering the rose, she thought Erik, at last you are loved. That coffin keeps nothing as long as she keeps your heart.