"Turn your face away, from the phiction of the day.
Close your book upon the phiction of the light,
and read again the phiction of the night!"

Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, the novel by Gaston Leroux, nor do I own any of the characters from the book. I do not own Andrew Lloyd Webber's (and company) adaptation or any of his characters. Nor do I own ANY of the lyrics which I use from his musical. I own nothing, and am simply borrowing them for the sake of writing this fictional story.

CHAPTER 1

He woke to the early light of dawn, pale in the cold morning air. The light streamed into the small abandoned barn, overgrown with weeds. It housed a family of sparrows the loft, and nothing else. He glanced up at them briefly before rising and walking outside. He put up his hand, shielding himself from the sun (to which he was still not used). It was bitterly cold; yet he was not sorry, for it helped to clear his head. He went around to the other side of the building he'd slept in, looking at all he'd been unable to see the night before. Seeing a dirt road he decided to see where it led, guessing correctly that it ended at what had been the main house (home to the family who had owned the farm). From the size and style of it, he thought they must have been of fair means, before whatever happened that caused it to be abandoned for so long. Over to his left was an enclosure of some kind; walls overgrown with vines. Perhaps a garden? Mildly curious, he went to have a look.

There had been a gate it seemed, no longer there. Inside he found a small family cemetery.

"--Try to forgive--"

He whirled around; had he heard…?"

"--teach me to live. Give me the strength to try--"

In his mind. He heard her…

"--is there, inside my mind."

"Stop!" he cried. He flew from the place, back toward the barn. "No more memories!"

The mother of the nest had gone to hunt for food he assumed, so he climbed up to the loft to look at the tiny bird. They were very young, and quite ugly.

"Unappealing creatures," he remarked. A moment later the mother returned, squawking at him furiously. He jumped down, for she seemed likely to attack him.

Even though they're ugly, she'd cares for them. She'd fight for them. But they are normal. If they weren't? If one had been deformed, wouldn't she dispatch it? Heartless creatures, mothers!

He put his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair. Then he shook his head, trying without success to rid himself of painful memories…

"Enough!" he shouted. Ohh, why?

Before, to remove thought, he had immersed himself in music. His Music. Despite his attempt to disrupt the train of thought, he remembered how, after seeing that fool and Her on the rooftop of the Opera, he'd buried himself in Music. This was how, and why, he finished Don Juan Triumphant, which he brought to the Masquerade…

He knew he must stop now.

"Leave," he told himself. He took an old horse blanket he'd found there, and departed.

He knew there was a town nearby, and he was correct, for he soon found it. It was not large, but the train ran through it. He covered the right side of his face with the blanket, making a kind of hood of it, and started toward the train station.

He ended a long, uncomfortable journey in Le Harve. He ran from the past, but would never leave him.

He took very little nourishment and soon became quite thin. It was not long after he reached the beautiful seaside city that he became ill. The virus he'd caught ran it's course, but there was a lingering cough, which was very much aggravated by the fact that he slept in a large wooded area outside the city; hardly shelter from the cold and damp.

He was able to collect currency (as he always had been, by one means or another), and once he had amassed enough capital, he was able to rent an old house, using clever devices of his own to keep from ever having to show himself to the owner.

Once he was settled in his house, he became well again. As well as he could be, for he could not keep the past from haunting him. If only he could burn from his mind the memory of Her (he dared not even think her name). Every waking hour he tried in vain not to here her voice--

"--And he'll always be there, singing songs in my head--"

Time passed slowly for him, as it had most of his life. He tried only once to write music again, but when he took pen and paper, sitting down to write, he was flooded with such emotion as few mortal men have felt, and he abandoned the thought of ever composing again. Instead, he endeavoured to entertain his mind with the goings on of the city. It helped to ease his tortured mind somewhat.

It became a custom of his at night to shroud his face and venture, through deserted alleys and back roads, to observe the people of the city. (He avoided the Musical Hall at all costs, however.) He watched people who supped in restaurants, patrons of local café's who ate in the outside area on warmer evenings, people coming and going from parties, laughing and talking. Then one night, while he was making his way toward a favourite pot overlooking the City Hall (where there were often meetings) noticed a familiar face. He thought: Well, it has been some time since I've seen her

The young lady who'd caught his attention was none other than Meg, the daughter of Madame Giry. She was in a small group of people, but obviously being escorted by a young man who appeared to be of, though perhaps not the highest class of society, was certainly not of the middle; and seemed to have a fair amount of money, judging by his clothes and manor of carrying himself.

Curiosity overcame him, and he followed the couple from a distance, careful to draw no attention to himself: but of course, he hardly needed to give that a thought, for it was the most natural thing for him to hide in shadow--

He saw them arrive at a carriage, and one lady from the group was handed in by her husband it seemed, for he waited for the gentleman who escorted Meg to help her into the carriage, then got in himself. Ahhh, thought he to himself, one of my managers! It was indeed Andre who entered the carriage last, waving to his friends as it carried them off. I wonder…

The next morning he procured himself a newspaper, and read this announcement in the society page:

"Monsieur Gille Andre arrived yesterday afternoon by train, bringing his newly wed bride, on what he called a 'Continuation of a much too short honeymoon.' Monsieur Andre was co-owner to the famous (or perhaps now infamous) Opera Populaire in Paris. The Opera was recently destroyed by fire in what was called--"

Here he stopped reading, throwing the newspaper down. He stood up, paced a moment, then bent down to pick it back up, skipping over the article 'till he found what he was looking for, then threw it into the fire, watching the flames eat it up.

He had been waiting some time now. It was cold, but he did not feel it. His mind was in turmoil. His thoughts were: Shall I ask? Why not? I must know. I must. She'll tell me, I am sure. But does she know? Of course she does, She would have told her best friend. Should he? Would he? He heard her come in, saying goodnight to Mrs. Andre, and shut the door. He would. He waited for her to prepare herself for bed. Only when he saw the flame from her lamp disappear did he decide when to enter. He would wait just another half hour, and then--

He closed one hand around her mouth, holding the back of her head in his other. She tried to scream in fright, but little sound emerged.

"Quiet!" he commanded in a whisper. "No harm will come to you, if you only make no sound. Do you understand?"