I was led through several hallways, glancing over my shoulder from time to time. I couldn't convince myself that He would just magically appear, yet I couldn't disregard it either. My mind had seemed to be playing tricks on me. Every time we passed some figure, shrouded in the darkness of the Opera House, my heart would catch in my throat. For a brief moment, excitement would boil through my blood at the thought that Erik would resurface. Eventually, my hopes simmered.

We continued on our way through the various quarters where the staff took residence.

"This is where you will be staying tonight," Madame Giry announced, unlocking a door with a small, bronze key. As she pushed it open, clouds of dust enshrouded us, causing my lungs to ache from the debris. Madame Giry seemed not to notice and continued inside the room. I was hesitant at first, for it seemed a rather crude place to spend one's evening, but a swift tug on my arm convinced me to inspect my new surroundings further.

It was large, much larger than my room. I noted that an important member of the cast must have stayed here, for the grander rooms were reserved for the lead sopranos and the prima ballerinas. Though the furnishings were aged from un-use, they still managed to retain most of their charm. A quaint little vanity sat in the far corner of the room, with a dresser alongside it. The bed seemed inviting enough, and to my surprise, was adorned with satin pillows and an indulgent velvet coverlet. Perhaps this was not so bad.

"I will return shortly. I need to fetch some things for your stay here." She left the door open and I began to explore this room.

I found a small rag of cotton, and began to tidy up the furniture. My hands were barely able to grasp it, and it fell to the floor behind the vanity. I bent down to pick it up, my hand scanning the cramped space behind the furniture. I felt something. Wrapping my fingers around it, I pulled it out from its hiding place. A flower? A very old, very withered rose lie innocently on my palm, a smooth, black ribbon tied around the stem. I stared at it with curiosity. It had once been beautiful, vivid and bright with life. Now, it was ruined. Neglected and forgotten, gathering up inches of dust as it lay on the cold wooden planks of the ground. This wasn't just an ordinary rose, however. Something about it made my heart beat a little faster, made color return to my pale cheeks. I imagined the person who received it was loved very much, for it was a beautiful rose. Funny, that something that simple could emit all those feelings…

I set it carefully into one of the dresser drawers, my fingertips brushing over the crinkled petals. My focus shifted to the rest of the room.

Something suddenly struck me as odd. In the middle of the wall hung a bulky sheet, covering what seemed to be a painting of some sort. Walking up to it, I traced my arm along the smooth outline of the fabric. My clothed hand trying to pull back the sheet. Madame Giry re-entered and her sudden presence made me jump.

"I apologize for the state in which this room is in. It has not been used since…" her voice trailed off, "It has not been occupied for some time. However, I can not ask you to sleep with the Corps de Ballet for it would be much too crowded and all the other living quarters are full, so this will have to do for the time being."

She placed a pitcher of fresh water and a few of my belongings on the dresser.

"Thank you, Madame." I curtsied. My head still bowed, ever so cautiously I added, "And what is behind that sheet?"

Her lips puckered, as if suddenly inflicted with pain. "You are not, under any circumstances, to remove that cloth." Her voice turning harsh and strained.

"Yes, Madame." I obeyed, slightly disappointed. What is she trying to hide?

I knew that eventually my curiosity would give in, for I was a very curious woman. It was simply a matter of time.

She looked around the room once more, as if scanning for an undetected presence. Clicking her tongue, she bid me good-night, and left me, closing the door behind her.

Sitting down on my plush, new bed, I finally took notice of my hands. Madame Giry must have forgotten to send for the nurse. They were aching, so sharply! I took heed of Erik's warning and convinced myself that I would have to clean them, not wanting an infection. I found a wash basin near the dresser, and poured some water from the pitcher into it. Carefully unwrapping my makeshift bandages, I gingerly dipped my marred skin into the cool liquid. It stung a little at first, but as I continued to run them in and out of the water, relief finally settled over my weary body. Gathering the courage I needed to thoroughly survey the damage, I examined my hands. There were deep cuts along the knuckles and my fingers still had bits of glass lodged in them. I wondered if I would ever be rid of that mirror, it's presence forever marked upon my flesh.

Panic struck me. How was I to work in this condition? It was impossible to carefully line eyes with kohl with sheets wrapped around your hands! It seemed inevitable that my stay at L'Opera Populaire was limited. I needed to devise a plan to remain employed here. There was no where else to work, no one that would hire me. No one that would care for me. I pushed the ominous thoughts off. In the morning I would ask the manager's to give me a few days' recovery, then I could continue my profession here. For, they had not another aesthetician to fall back on, maybe I am needed here after all. I smiled at my solution, finally feeling security wrap it's comforting arms around me.

I changed into my nightgown, though it was very difficult to do so with mounds of sheets for hands. I was drawing back my bed when I first heard it. A soft hum, lulling my anxiety away, carrying me off into a state of pure bliss. Where worry and fear was replaced with delight and pleasure. Gradually it grew louder, until the hum became a voice, enrapturing my senses. This was not the first time I had heard this voice. A few weeks ago, I had been awoken to these sounds. It had frightened me then, now it intrigued me. Called to me. Where was it coming from? I paced around the room, searching frantically for the origin of that sensual melody. It seemed to be coming from all directions. First it was hiding under my bed, then dancing about the vanity.

All at once, I had a suspicion about that sheet. Looming over the dull wall, a painting, surely it was a painting! I rushed over to it, completely disregarding Madame Giry's warning, and tore the sheet from the wall. It pooled into a whisper at my feet. The voice had stopped singing, the music was gone!

Silence. It was deafening.

A mirror! Another cursed' mirror stood before me. I debated slamming what was left of my hands into it and putting myself out of my misery, but then I remembered. He came from the mirror. Was He there now? I had absolutely no idea why I was so fascinated with this man. I barely even knew Him! Yet, in those few, precious minutes we had spent together, I had seen all that I needed to see. Heard all I needed to hear.

I can honestly not give you a fair explanation of why I was intrigued with the Phantom. Call it empathy, call it fascination, call it whatever you like! Somewhere deep in the sub- consciousness of my mind, I felt connected to him. We were actually very similar. His life, a complete Hell because of His face. Mine, a living, breathing nightmare because of mine. Tortured, abused, broken by something we could not control. We could do our best to disguise it, Heaven knows we have both tried! But, it would always be there, lurking under our false appearances. Casting a permanent shadow over our worlds.

Tears had begun to fall once again. This time, I did not try to stop them. Nor did I stifle my sobs, barely audible now. The anger was gone, and all that was left to feel was nothing. Emptiness. Loneliness.

I positioned myself in front of the mirror. Sitting cross-legged, as a child would, before it. My tear stained face leaning against the cool glass, my hand stroked the reflection. Trying to comfort it, desperately seeking solace. I wanted to cry out to Him, to share my pain with Him. To share His pain with me. Not by choice, but by some cruel twist of fate, this was our connection. Pain was our connection.

I sat there for countless minutes, hours, maybe? Waiting for Him to come. When I could no longer find the strength to keep my body upright, I laid down next to it. I couldn't tear myself away from the mirror. Even if Erik was not watching me, was not standing on the other side, I still felt His presence. It was everywhere in this room. Sleep came, and my fatigued body accepted it gladly.

The first thing I noticed the next morning was the intense pulsing of my hands. They ached more viciously then they had the night before. I glanced down at them and noticed that a yellow pus now seeped through the linen. It was quite a sight, dried bits of blood and glass mixed with the vile, oozy liquid. My stomach churned with disgust. Clearly, I was not the best of nurses. I winced at the thought of actually removing the bandages, I would save that delight for someone else!

The second thing I noticed was that I was no longer on the floor. I rested comfortably on the bed, wrapped in indulgent velvet blankets. My amber waves splashed over blue satin pillows. I was positive, completely sure that I had fallen asleep in front of the mirror last night. My brow furrowed in thought. My memory was rather hazy, blurred with images of tears and relentless emotions. Slowly, a picture began to form…

I was nearly consumed with slumber when I heard the voice again. I did not have an immediate reaction to it, for I was still very drowsy. Sprawled out on the floor, I called to it:

"Erik…"

There was no answer at first. Still, I beckoned the voice, "Erik…"

Suddenly, my body was no longer in contact with the harsh wooden floor. It was entangled in two strong arms. I relaxed into His hold, my head nestled into the warm fabric of His shirt. I inhaled, the bold smell of candle smoke filling my nose. Heat was emanating from Him, warming me, bringing me back to life. I began to stir. Before I could speak, the music began again. Such a sweet melody! Entering me, sending me back into a world of rest and comfort. I realized now that the music was coming from Him. He sang, in a foreign tongue I did not understand in literal terms. But physically, I felt it. The voice, filled with such longing, such grief, but still undeniably beautiful in it's sorrow. It took over my body, possessing me, forcing me into sleep. I tried to fight it, struggled to resist it, but it was all-consuming.

Eventually, the voice won. I was placed upon the bed, my frame neatly tucked into the piles of covers. It was becoming softer now, so quiet and fragile…

That was the last thing I could remember. He had come to me last night. Rescuing me once again from myself.