It was as if she had never left.

The Opera Populaire was a beautiful place. Enormous columns dwarfed any who walked by. Golden statues stood guard proudly and gestured enticingly. Unlit candelabras lined the hallways while crystal chandeliers provided a breathtaking view for any who looked up. Had they been lit, the whole place would have had a golden glow unequaled by any place on earth.

But Christine hardly noticed. She was making her way to her old dressing room.

Although she tried to remain focused and reach her destination as quickly as she could, memories inevitably crept into her mind. Passing the ballet practice rooms, she remembered the endless hours of rehearsals under the strict but loving Madame Giry...all those times she and Meg would arrive late and get in trouble, only to find some way out of it...near Carlotta's dressing room, she remembered all too well the day the diva lost her voice, and the gruesome death of Buquet...

Focus! she commanded herself.

She finally arrived at her former dressing room. As she reached for the handle, she stiffened. What if there was someone inside? She remembered those nights that she and Meg would sneak back to Christine's dressing room so they could talk and giggle in private...what if some of the other girls had the same idea?

Christine pressed her ear to the door, listening for giggling or whispering or any sign of a person being in the room. Hearing none, she cautiously opened the door.

It was almost exactly as she left it, she realized upon lighting a candle. It was slightly more bare. Of course, without all the roses, it would be...she thought to herself, remembering those times when she had returned to her dressing room after a successful performance to find a bouquet of roses tied with a black ribbon, sometimes accompanied by a note. A note from him. "He is pleased with you," Madame Giry would say, giving Christine a knowing smile. She would gather up the roses and drink in their scent. They smelled exactly like him. Their smell was a mixture of intoxicating sweetness and musty air that somehow, when combined, was glorious...Her heart fluttered. She had never smelled anything as wonderful as those roses...

Roses...Erik...Erik! she thought, suddenly remembering why she was here. She set her bags down for a moment as she neared the massive mirror that adorned the back wall of the room.

He used to come to her through that mirror...she would hear that angelic voice and she was no longer in control of herself. At the memory, his voice seemed to echo throughout the room. His magnificent voice, powerful yet lulling, strange and beautiful...

Christine sighed in ecstacy. She was certain that not even an angel in Heaven could sing with the passion Erik could make her feel just by singing one note.

She slid her fingers down the side of the mirror until she found the hidden handle that would slide the mirror away and open the gateway to his world. She stood on sudden haste; her heart ached to see him again. Quickly, she pulled the mirror aside, grabbed her bags, and entered the deserted hallway. But she faltered slightly as she turned back to close the mirror behind her.

What if he does not want to see me? What if he is not down there at all?

She wasn't sure about the answer to the first question, but in her heart, she knew that he had nowhere else to go. He would be down there. She mustered her strength and began her journey.

Her bags were awkward and made it difficult to keep her candle steady. The flame flickered and threatened to go out. She bit her lip and looked down at her belongings. She would have to leave them behind. It was always possible to come back and get them, whether she had been invited to stay, or...

She placed her bags on the floor and continued on, praying that her candle would see her through this labyrinth.

The steps were uneven - she would have to watch her steps carefully. It was odd to see the passageway as it really was: run-down, and very, very dark.

The last time she had come this way, she hadn't been in control of her senses. He had taken her, in the middle of the night, coaxing her to sing for him, and in his own way, to love him. He taught and nurtured her. In turn, he sang for her, a beautifully tragic hymn of devotion and pain, one that he had no doubt composed himself. The angels had wept. And then, apart from the dressing-room singing lessons, she had not seen him for a long time - not until the last time she had come down to his home, a home that seemed more of a tomb than an artistic domain on that night.

And then he was gone. Or, more accurately, she was gone. She remained at the Opera for only a few days afterward, and then she politely announced her resignation from the Opera Populaire, and that was that. She went to live with the de Chagnys, and visited the Opera only to see Meg dance from time to time. But even that stopped once Meg, too, left the Opera house to marry and start a family.

Tearing herself away from her thoughts, she found herself on the edge of the lake. She had hoped she would find the boat resting on its usual place on the shore, and she was not disappointed. She gingerly stepped inside, steadying herself as the boat tipped precariously, and picked up an oar. It struck her as odd that the place was so entirely dark. She was forced to rely on the pitiful little candle in her hand to light her way. Rowing was difficult with one hand already full, but she pushed on until she saw an unlit candelabra out of the corner of her eye. She remembered the candles that had filled the caverns and realized that if she lit some of them, eventually she would not need the candle.

Once the candelabra was lit, she had a better view of things. Her sight was still limited, but she could now make out more shapes. A glint of gold caught her eye - several candelabras were lying askew on the floor, their candles long since extinguished. Fear began to gnaw at her heart.

She rowed on with more desperation, lighting what unharmed candelabras she could find, and finding more broken ones and stray candles. Her mind began to race. Why is the place in such disarray? Where is Erik?

Christine suddenly shivered. She was starting to feel so alone, so...cold...

Her thoughts had occupied her so completely that she had not noticed the water beginning to flood the boat.

The icy blackness was seeping faster and faster into the boat and started to soak the bottom of Christine's skirt. The sensation jolted her from her thoughts, and she gave a little scream. She thrashed around wildly, looking for the source of this unwelcome intrusion. Suddenly, she discovered it.

Her blood ran cold.

Bullet holes.

She hadn't really looked carefully before getting into the boat. But now, upon further examination, there was no denying what they were. And there was no denying the reddish-brown substance that stained around the holes...she felt slightly ill.

She flailed around, looking for something, anything that could stop the flow of water. Her eyes fell on something that she had not noticed before in the corner of the boat. She pulled it from the bottom. It was slightly stuck - she had to pull a little for it to give way. Whatever it was, it was covered in a lot of old blood. Bringing it into the light, a wave of recognition swept over her.

Her stomach lurched.

She was holding what had once been a beautifully crafted piece of white leather. The shape and eyeholes confirmed that it had once covered a man's face. It had once been beautiful to see and touch. But now, it was stained a sticky deep brown. Christine could see where the bullet had torn through it, blowing the other half away.

It was Erik's mask.