As Claire made her way down the hall, she stopped at the supply closet and picked up a broom and a dust pan. Claude had said that Erik was smashing things, so she assumed that she'd have a lot to clean up. Claire slowly climbed the stairs, her blood pounding in her ears. Suddenly, the silence was broken as Erik let out a cry of utter anguish. His voice was filled with such pain and loss that Claire involuntarily clutched her chest, fearing that his cry would break her heart.

When she reached the door, she stood outside it for several moments, too afraid to go in. Claire heard glass shatter upon the floor, a chair skid across the room and Erik's pained cries.

"Why? Why?" he howled.

Claire could picture him looking towards the heavens, his fists clenched in anger. Finally, when she heard him give a quiet sob of defeat, she knocked on the door. When he didn't answer, she slowly pushed the door open and peeked inside. Normally, she would never enter without his permission, but she feared for his safety.

The room was dark, lit only by the light of a single, tall candle. Erik was sitting hunched over on the piano bench, facing away from her, his head in his hands. His hair was messy and his clothes untucked, so unlike the perfectly composed gentleman he usually presented. Claire let her eyes sweep over the room, taking in the bits of glass and ink that littered the floor. On the top of the piano sat a broken quill and several shredded sheets of music.

Claire stepped into the room and closed the door gently behind her. She headed towards the nearest shards of glass and began to sweep them up, Erik never taking any notice of her presence.

"Lost," he muttered quietly.

Claire froze, her breath caught in her throat.

"I can't write anymore." He paused. "My music," he sobbed, sounding as if it had just died.

Claire leaned on her broom, gazing at him, a small sad smile on her face. She understood at once what was wrong: he hadn't lost his mind, he had lost his muse.

Turning back to the mess, she continued to sweep it up. As she moved from pile to pile she could hear Erik's quiet weeping. It brought tears to her eyes to see a man so strong and powerful so pained and defeated. Once she finished sweeping and mopping up the glass and ink, she got to her feet and simply watched him. His face was still buried in his hands, but his sobs had become quieter and his body trembled less. Her eyes drifted to the broken quill and, taking a deep breath, Claire knew what needed to be done.

Putting down her broom, she made her way to the desk at the far end of the room and took out a new quill and a fresh bottle of ink. Then she returned to the piano and placed them on top while removing the old quill and ripped sheet music. She began to shuffle through Erik's papers until she found some blank sheets of music and tentatively placed them on the piano stand. All the while, Erik silently watched her. When she was finished, she stood back to look at him. Erik looked up at her, and their eyes met. This time her eyes held no pity, only compassion and understanding.

It took all of Claire's strength to gaze back. His bright blue eyes were illuminated by the light of the candle, and seemed to hold more sadness then she had thought was possible to bear. She felt moved, she felt his pain reach inside and touch her soul. Letting her emotions take control, Claire walked towards him and gently took his face in her hands. Using her thumbs she tenderly wiped away his tears, remembering with a slight shock that one side was dry because of the mask. Erik closed his eyes and leaned his head back. For that single, brief moment, he was at peace. Then he opened his eyes and looked up at her again. His face remained devoid of emotion, but his eyes now held a hint of curiosity.

"You will find your muse," she whispered.

Claire did not see the look of astonishment on his face. Instead, she broke their gaze and, leaning forward, placed a soft kiss on his forehead. Erik slowly sucked in a breath as he felt her soft lips upon his flesh. They both closed their eyes, overcome by emotion. After a moment Claire pulled away, and, giving him a small smile of encouragement, picked up her broom and quietly slipped out of the room.

Erik remained motionless, his eyes still closed. A single tear rolled down his unmarked cheek. Brushing it away he roughly, snatched up the quill and began to write furiously. Claire was right: he had found his muse, and this time he would not let her go.