The Phantom's life had ended, he knew. The only reason he survived was because he was determined to outlive Christine and leave her a small tribute - one of those traditional tributes he remembered giving her so long ago, a red rose of passion wrapped in a black ribbon to remind her of his own black despair. When he was young, when she was young, when her damned Vicomte was also young that had taken place. He was watching the wedding, but left quickly, afraid he would do something insane and draw attention to himself but too heartbroken to watch the lovers take their vows. The Phantom had written myriad operas since then but had no motivation to get them circulating; he supposed that when the end finally came, they might eventually discover those scripts, and, not knowing who they were by, start putting them in action.
Suddenly he realized that all he wanted was to get his music out. That was the point; no one had to know who the operas were by, as long as his spirit could live in them!
It was now evening and cold. Being an old man, the Phantom was not fit for walking too long in such weather. He gathered up the several scripts in his arms and headed into the evening. If he kept his head bent and stuck to the shadows, maybe no one would see the disfigurement - long ago, he had been shocked to his senses and realized that a mask was only cowardly.
The Phantom hurried to his old abode, the Opera Populaire. He dumped all the scripts on the floor in Box Five, and finally found his way to the labyrinth below. It was his home, his musty, smelly, dingy, dark, cold, dusty home; long ago all his leftover belongings had been taken away. But the rooms were all there, and he sat in the middle of the one he had tucked Christine into after she fainted when his manikin had frightened her.
Gradually, the Phantom calmed down completely. He felt strangely at peace, even though he'd done nothing he truly wanted to in life, and, he acknowledged, a lot of things that were horrible. He was home to die, back in the place that once had glimmered optimistically with his hopes about to be fulfilled.
As his senses dimmed, the room got dark and warm around him. He lay back and looked up at the ceiling, now - a sky full of stars?
The Phantom opened his eyes widely. The image of Christine had appeared floating in the ceiling...the roof...the sky...the stars. It was lucid, whitish where visible, and seemed to be an angel.
"Christine..." he breathed.
She was descending toward him. Suddenly, what would have been his life flashed before his eyes; instead, it was his victims. Last appeared Christine - not his victim by intention, but by the way the events ran - her big brown eyes glowing but full of sadness. They were so sad they matched his own eyes.
"I offered you one love...one lifetime.
All I wanted was freedom..."
"Christine," he said again.
"I am not Christine," said the angel. "I am the Angel of Music. I am Christine Daae's messenger."
"Oh, Christine..." The Phantom broke down as the Angel of Music enveloped him in her wings. Everything around was dark now - dark and starry. No more opera house. The Angel began to sing to a familiar tune.
Close your eyes and surrender to your weary soul;
Purge your thoughts of the life you once despised;
Close your eyes, close your eyes, close your eyes, sense your wings!
And you'll feel as you've never felt before...
The Phantom drifted off, now completely embraced by the wings. He didn't know if he would go to Hell or Heaven or nowhere. What he hoped desperately was that he'd meet Christine again. If not, at least he could - perhaps - survive in the music of the night.