Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. Especially not Phantom of the Opera. But if I did...boy would that be something...
"Christine I love you…."
The words echoed through her mind, although the time and place in which they had been said seemed like a faraway memory now.
Three long year had passed since the incident; years that had seemed to be full of joy and happiness. But deep down, a sinking feeling pushed at the bottom of her heart. So much so that it threatened to break her poor heart entirely. Three years, and still the whole affair remained on her mind. Three years with the love of her life.
Of course, if this were true, why did she feel so horribly guilty?
It was as if the 'ghost' still haunted her. And in all truth, he did. His memory was still crystal clear in her mind. She could still see the tears in his eyes; still hear the suffering in his voice in those last minutes spent with him. She had been so happy with Raoul those days…why now, when she was free to be with him, free of the phantom, did she feel so horrid?
The heels of her small boots clicked softly on the cobblestones as she made her way down the road, towards her destination. To be a bit more discreet, she had had the carriage leave her in front of the home of a friend, and it was a good thing, too, for if Raoul woke to find her missing…she shook this thought from her mind. What mattered now was the situation at hand.
She was now nearing the old building, the workers having gone home for the night hours ago. It was close to midnight, and the moon shone clearly on the streets of Paris. Work was being done to restore the Opera Populaire, but thus far, nothing significant had been accomplished.
The young woman sighed, wrapping her cloak a bit more tightly around herself. It was an even chillier night as the winter winds blew against her. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the doors. Looking up, her eyes traveled over the statues that looked as though they guarded the old place. And then to the roof, where she could just see parts of the stone angels. The roof, where the secret engagement had first been formed. It nearly brought tears to her eyes. And yet, something prevented them from coming.
After one final moment of gazing at the roof, she began to slowly make her way up the steps. What would she find here? Here, in the darkness, dust, and cobwebs of the old Opera Populaire? Her thoughts flew back to the phantom. What had become of him? Was he alive, even now? Or had the rather cliché angry horde found and killed him as she suspected. She shuddered at the thought of a body being her findings.
With but a light press, the doors creaked open, and the young lady flinched at the sound. Peering around, she spied a spare lantern. Once she had it lit, she smiled softly. At least now she had some light. Walking in a small circle, she shed some light on her surroundings.
She was in the front room, that once held a magnificent staircase and golden statues. Now all that lay before her were dull figures of angels, and a charred and dusty set of stairs.
Placing a hand gently on the banister, she suddenly pulled back, feeling as though she had just touched a blanket. And in all reality, she had. A blanket of three years worth of dust. Of course, her hand hadn't come back without her palms being a dirty souvenir of this touch. She made a face at this; in her flurry of thoughts, she hadn't thought about /this/. She sighed, and slowly made her way up /these/ stairs now, very quietly humming. As she climbed, the very quiet humming turned into very quiet singing; singing of the song that refused to leave her mind.
"In sleep he sang to me…" She began, the words naturally coming from her mouth, clear in her memory.
"In dreams he came…" It was frequent that she found herself humming or singing this song, and she struggled to hide it from Raoul. She suspected it was purposeful, but the song had a comforting effect on her.
"That voice which calls to me,
And speaks my name." She sighed, the song bringing rather unwanted tears to her eyes.
"And do I dream again…
For now I find…"
She couldn't finish the verse.
Tears choked her voice for some reason, and she stopped at the top of the stairs, turning her head and placing a hand to her mouth to try and gulp down the lump in her throat. Holding her lantern up, she went and pushed open the doors to the old theatre and stage. Walking down the main aisle, she went towards the dressing rooms. Every now and then, she would give a small sneeze or a cough, the musty air and dust getting to her lungs. As she neared the door to her old dressing room; the room of the mirror wherein she had first seen the false angel, her heart quickened, and when she did reach the door, she was hesitant to open it, her breath catching as she pushed on the door.
And what a sight met her eyes as it opened.
Letters and papers littered the floor. Old and dried flowers rested in old and dried vases. The two or three chairs in the room had been upturned, and a few vases and jars lay broken on the floor. The two mirrors, the small vanity mirror, and the large mirror she had traveled through, were shattered.
The young woman looked horrified. What had happened here? She wrapped her arms around herself, shutting her eyes for a moment. Why had she come back? It seemed like she hadn't any idea. But she did. Deep down, she knew. It was to try and face her memories.
Why else would Christine Daae come back to the Opera Populaire?
