A/N: Oh well, looks like this is at a close. My first ending is my favourite. I added the second one to see if I could pull off fluff. I am far better at angst. Please read this as the final chapter to Ending one.

I hope you like it. It's a little bit different.

Thank you for all of the reviews, I didn't expect to get two let alone over 90… though I doubt I will quite hit one hundred.

I will be back, rest assured, but I'm not sure how long it will be for phantom things. Maybe tomorrow maybe in a month but I SHALL RETURN!

Thank you all.

'Call it over,

Call it gone,

Call it nothing,

See what you've gone and done.' –Kristian Leontiou.

Final Chapter. How the might rise and fall.

When I opened my eyes this morning there was a strange glow to the room around me. I wasn't sure if the glow was real or if it was my imagination but either way I could see it. It came from nowhere in particular, I can tell you that for certain as I searched and searched. It was just there. Eventually I brought myself to the conclusion that it was mind playing tricks on me, the end of an era, as it were, had brought me some comfort. I sat and sipped the water by my bed, it was oddly warm it the coolness of the room and it made me gag.

The room held me then, as it always held me, before the death and murders. It held me silent, disturbed me to the core and I felt it's loneliness despite the company it has seen over the years. However, as it disturbed me it freed me as it always has and, no doubt, always will. It is my home and my sanctuary, my only place of uninterrupted calm where I see the world as only I want to see it. As only I can see it.

I stood up and paced over to the cabinet from which I removed my mask, it's cool ceramic calming my hands as I lifted it to cover my face. I smoothed it down, wet my hair with the water in the bowl next to it and smoothed that down too. Next I walked over to my wardrobe, pulled out two shirts, one black the other white and I stared at that for a moment. Black, was the decision and black it would be. I am mourning so many things today.

My trousers are getting loose on me again, I noticed as I pulled them up to my waist and fastened my belt, one notch tighter than it had been recently. Then I gently slid the shirt over my skin, feeling its cotton kiss my flesh as I buttoned the front. I decided not to tuck it into my trousers, I'm going for the casual look, I thought with a smile.

The morning was warm and so I left my jacket off and wandered through the backstreets of Paris barely noticed and enjoying the good weather. The sun blared down on me and I gazed up at the blue skies, uninterrupted by the insolence of the crowds and for the first time in my life and I thought that I actually appreciated the day time. The cobbles clicked beneath me and the sound made me think of a song I once wrote about the lonely streets of Paris for the lonely hearts of the people in it. I couldn't stop myself from feeling a little low at that point, it had finally hit me. I finally remembered properly what I was doing today.

Christine is gone, she is gone from me forever and I will never have her back, was the thought in my mind at the time. I will never see her face, her radiant beauty and her beautiful eyes. I won't witness that smile which lit her face, lit the room and lit my life. I won't find her one day standing on my doorstep, declaring that she loves me. Declaring that she sings for me, will always sing for me. Suddenly, the mask seemed to hurt my face, to trap my fears, never to let them escape. And it did. The mask, that is. It trapped my fears, kept that hidden because my only fear was that Christine would be so repulsed by my face that she would never look at me again. I feared nothing else and I fear nothing else now. There is nothing to fear now as I sit by the gravestone, staring at the name printed on the top.

The rose in my hand is blood red, so iridescent that I can barely bring myself to look at its beauty. I bring it to my lips and brush it over them gently, feeling the petals velvety texture washing away the coolness of my skin. I kiss the rose softly and hold it in front of me, looking at it, staring at it. I check that the ribbon it attached properly, I check that there are no marks on the silk, marring its blackness. Making it less stunning. There are no marks, there are no thorns and there is no imperfection. I look briefly around me to make sure no one is watching and then I gaze back at the grave.

Perhaps it wasn't our last correspondence I think as I place the rose by the stone and lift the letter from my pocket. With a wry smile I say my last goodbyes to Madame Giry, quietly I pray as I promised her I would. I pray that God keeps her in his true temple, next to him as his confidante, as she truly was to him. I stand straight and let the letter fall to the rose and rest by it as I turn my back and walk away. I wonder, as I leave the cemetery, if Meg will find the letter first and what she will think when she reads it. No doubt she will smile and tuck it in her pocket.

There aren't enough words on this planet to explain the thoughts I have, the feelings I hold but there is music. And that it was I wrote on the note.

Simply music.