(A/N:) Sorry this update took so long, it has been really busy around here! Anyway this chapter is in like a flashback format, so don't get confused! Enjoy! And as always, please R&R!

Over the next few weeks, my hands began to heal nicely. Though they were still recovering, I had regained most of their use. Getting dressed was no longer a tedious chore, and I found that I could accomplish the simpler tasks that I had taken for granted with ease, once again. I had learned, over the years of my life, that all actions have their appropriate consequences. This expression held true to my injuries. Yes, I could use my hands again, but they would be forever scarred. Scarred by the choices I made. Scarred by a decision I had acted upon in an instant, without thinking, purely upon instinct. Now, I was forever plagued with that consequence. The flesh on my hands was still raw, but I could already see the scars beginning to form on the once delicate flesh. My hands were my livelihood, without them, I had no career, no future!

I sighed, turning my pallor face to the inviting rays of the sun. I had a few moments to spare before rehearsals began and I had decided to retreat to the roof of the Opera House. It was calm and tranquil, so unlike the frenzied panic that erupted in the halls before any performance commenced. Situating myself under the looming sculptures of angels and cherubs, the envelope still clutched in my hand, I hesitated before opening it. As my shaky fingers tore open the familiar wax seal, I felt my mind begin to drift back to the events that unfolded during my recuperation.

It was in those beginning days of recovery that I had truly understood what fear meant. I was terrified beyond belief that I would never heal, that I had lost all use of my appendages. I would no longer be able to carry out the duties to which my position here at L'Opera demanded of me. I would have no choice but to take to life on the streets of Paris. I knew that I would have to return to my life as a courtesan. That I dreaded above all else. I would much rather freeze in the numbing wind of the Parisian winters, starving slowly, begging for any kind of nourishment. I would rather die…

Slowly, I sank into an extreme melancholy. Leaving my room only when absolutely necessary. It was taking longer than expected for Madame Giry to repair the broken mirror in my old stateroom, so I was still occupying Mademoiselle Daae's previous dressing room. Not that I minded in the least bit. Though, I did not see or hear of Erik during those days, it comforted me to be staying in that room. Knowing that it once belonged to Christine made me feel closer to Him. Each night, I laid myself next to the mirror, talking to Him as if He were in the room with me. I poured out my hearts content each and every night. I spoke of my desires for the future, the travesties of my past. I spoke of hopes and dreams I once had, and how they all managed to end up disappointing me in the end. All my sense was instructing me to cease this foolish torment, to accept that Erik wanted nothing more of me. That I wanted nothing more of Him. My heart, however, beat to the tune of a different rhythm.

Looking back on those few, dismal days, I realize that perhaps I too, was going mad. Driven by an invisible force, a relentless need for companionship. We were so alike in our experiences, in our past. Yet, I felt a world apart from Him. I felt a world apart from anyone. I became somewhat of an Opera Ghost myself. Sneaking off to the kitchens under the cover of darkness to collect some bits of provisions that my body had convinced me I needed. Not wanting to encounter anyone else in fear of what they might ask me, what they would think of my sudden change in disposition. In the earliest hours of the morning, I scampered off to the baths that I shared with the corps de ballet. I was always the first to enter and the first to leave, returning to my room before anyone had taken notice of me.

This behavior carried on for nearly a week. The only visitors I had were Madame Giry, who frequented the hall anyway, and Charlotte who was truly concerned for my well-being. I dreaded each time I heard a knock upon the door, and counted the minutes until I would be left to myself again. Free to converse with Erik as I pleased. To talk until my jaw grew tired and my eyes became weary. I would fall asleep before the mirror, only to awaken every few minutes in terror that Erik would decide to bestow His presence on me and I would miss Him through my slumber.

When the first week was up, I was summoned to return to my costuming duties. I hated having to leave the mirror, hated having to leave Him, but there was no alternative. My passion for aesthetics feigned, and my days filled with routine. All passion from my life was drained from me, that empty void now filled with thoughts of Him. After I had completed my tasks onstage, I would retreat to the solidarity of Christine's room, my room. The work load proved rather tiring and my evenings were spent nursing my poor hands back to health. I often stared at the mirror, the wheels in my head turning, trying to figure out the secret of the mirror. How did he open it?

The intense longing and need to see Him again, to hear that voice again, did not fade, as I thought it would, with time. On the contrary, it only grew stronger. It consumed me, He consumed my every thought, my every action. Even during rehearsals for L'Opera Populaire's newest production of Aida, I would find myself questioning the dancers about le Fantome. I poked and prodded their knowledge of Him, scanning for any information that someone may have forgotten to mention. Some only scoffed at me, others indulged me with their own absurd versions on what took place that fateful evening. Some cowered at the mention of Him, others reprimanded and insulted His being. This continued for awhile, and eventually I gave up of ever finding any convincing facts about Erik.

One night, I was curled up in the corner of one of the costuming rooms, my eyes strained from hours of detailing and refining sketches of the characters. My eyelids had just begun to droop when I heard a loud crash coming from the direction of the stage. Surprised, I hurried over to see what the commotion was about. I was greeted by darkness. The lights had been put out long ago and the stage seemed completely desolate. I realized how long I must have spent cooped up in that tiny room, it was well past midnight now. Deciding that it must have been my imagination, I turned around to collect my sketches and hurry off to bed.

Something made me stop. Mere inches in front of my face I detected a presence. I did not know what it was, though my mind had begun conjuring up ghastly images that not only disturbed me, but frightened me to the core. I could not move, my body a frozen block of ice. The figure advanced and the breath was taken hostage from my needy lungs. I strained my vision through the blackness that surrounded me, my eyes growing accustomed to the lack of light.

It was so slight, so delicate, I was not even sure I had felt it. Something smooth and cool had brushed over my left hand, caressing my tender palm. I gasped at the contact, the familiarity of it all suggesting what I had been trying to repress all this time.

"Erik?" it was barely a whisper. As soon as the name escaped my lips, the contact was broken and I was left in the middle of the stage. Alone. Well, almost alone.

I rushed about, my arms outstretched, groping for his figure. The blackness faded into a dull gray and I was now able to make out shapes with my eyes. I could see the rafters above me, miscellaneous props strewn about the stage, but I did not see Him. I dared myself to call His name louder, "Erik!" Still, nothing. I was so close, so close! I knew He had been there, it was His large, leather clad hand that reached to stroke my bandaged one. After all this time, all the days spent infatuated with Him, closed up in Christine's former dressing room, I was so close. The distance between us was growing, I could not give up so easily. I searched the stage and the adjoining hallways for at least another hour. I pleaded for Him to come back, cried His name over and over again.

It pained me to end my search, but daylight would soon dawn and light was the enemy. Feeling defeated I retreated to my room. I struck up a match and began lighting various candles, a soft glow filled the room. Candlelight danced off the walls and reflected in the mirror. I caught my reflection as my eyes bounced with the flames in the glass. Tired and drained of all luminosity, my eyes began to tear. I stared the mirror down, knowing that He had to be there now, watching me. I felt my stomach tighten, my heart twisted and contracted in pain. I could not go on like this!

I was obsessed! I was mad! Slowly, ever so slowly being driven insane by Him! His lack of presence intruded my thoughts, His exquisite voice emblazoned into the depths of my soul. What did He want of me? I offered my innermost secrets to the mirror every night, yet the only reply I received was silence. He haunted my dreams, and in those hours I was awake, shadowed my every step. I cried out aloud, "Oh, Erik! Why must you torture me so?"

Silence was my only answer.

I threw myself upon the bed. My face did not hit the cool satin pillowcases that I had expected. Rather a thin, grainy sheet contacted my damp cheeks. Confused, I examined this oddity that lay on my bed. It was an envelope, rather unassuming in appearance. Once I turned it over, however, it peaked my interest. The seal was of a scarlet wax in the figure of a skull. It struck me as rather strange to have a seal that morbid, but I did not dwell upon it and flipped it over again to inspect the front of the letter. Mademoiselle Alessandra deCapriana was scrawled out in red ink, fashioned by a crude hand. I tore the letter open, that overwhelming curiosity rising through my bold Italian blood.

Mademoiselle Alessandra,

It has come to my attention that my dear friend, Madame Antoinette Giry, has confirmed the truth of my presence to you. You are one of the very few that know of my continued existence here, at my opera house. I trust that this information will not become a burden to you, nor that anyone else will be informed of what you know. Furthermore, it is in your best interest to cease all attempts to locate me. Those who have discovered the secret of the mirrors and sought out my lair never return to the daylight. Therefore, I urge you strongly to forget of what you know and continue your work here in a normal fashion. I have seen the rehearsals for Aida and am quite impressed. You have talent, Mademoiselle, and I greatly respect your aptitude for the position.

If I am ever in need of your services, I will contact you.

Your Obedient Servant,

O.G.

I read through the letter twice more, making sure I had fully understood its contents. Trying to analyze this message, looking for any and all meaning was rather complicated. The first thing that struck me was the forewarning, was He threatening me? Of course I knew about Him! My life had only revolved around His being for the past month! Reading those lines, instructing me to be cautious, to tell no one of what I knew, irritated me. He did not know how much I wanted, how much I needed to be with Him. I felt alive when I stared into those depthless eyes. Alive, for the first time in years. They held such beauty, such pure, innocent splendor. When He held me with those eyes, all my fear, all my insecurities were sucked into the pits of them. My past disappeared, if only for a moment.

My heart ached at the thought of those eyes. Painfully, I returned my attention to the letter. Something was scrawled near the bottom, something that I had not taken notice of upon my first readings.

I trust that your hands are healing nicely. Such a pity it is to have a disfigurement upon your faultless features. A word of suggestion, perhaps you should change your dressings more often. I see that the infection still lingers on your flesh.

It was all very ironic. The horribly disfigured Phantom of the Opera feeling sorry for me at my scars. It filled me with sadness to think of how much worse His deformity actually was. I had been told that to look upon His face was to look upon Death itself. I shuddered at the thought. He, Erik, was certainly no reaper of morbidity. He was a man, a beautifully tragic human being cursed with an unattractive face. Cursed with such raw, true talent and denied the right to share it with the world. All because of His face.

Scanning the lines one more time before I set the note down, something odd struck me again. He can see my dressings? He knows about the infection? A strange feeling arose in my chest. It resembled hope, but I knew that I could not afford to hope right now. He had seen me, maybe was still watching me behind the mirror. The letter flew from my hands and landed silently on the floor as I ran to my reflection. I kneeled before it. My logic starting to come to play, I decided to look for some sort of device in which He used to open the mirror. Through trial and error I had learned that it was impossible to pry it open using only my sheer will and weak force. He was much smarter than that. I did not give a second thought to His warning's in the letter, my desire to see Him was stronger than that of any threats, even ones of death.Though it sounded absurd, I felt that if I never laid eyes upon His mysterious features, never again heard that enchanting voice, my life would lose all meaning.

I inspected every inch of the frame, tediously observing every nook, every engraving. I found nothing. There must be some way, there had to be a way! My back was aching from the position which I had held for quite some time now. With a sigh, I arose from the floor. I reluctantly readied myself for bed, silently promising myself to continue my search in the morning.

The next day, Aida, was scheduled to have its opening performance. I knew it was to be a very busy day, so my examination of the mirror began early. My frame tossed and turned in the covers, I found it nearly impossible to sleep. Aggravated, I threw the velvet blankets off of me and dressed myself as quickly as I possibly could. Without so much as a care to the condition of my wayward waves, I pushed them aside and bent down to inspect the frame of the mirror.

It was sometime later that my friend Charlotte decided to pay me a visit.

"Alessandra, are you awake?"

I sighed, my palms coming up to press against my eyes. I relished the feeling for a moment as bursts of bright colors exploded in the darkness of my eyelids. Standing up, I called back, "Yes, Charlotte. You may come in."

"Good afternoon! Are you ready for tonight's performance?"

Afternoon! Was it that late already? I must have been obsessing over that mirror for hours! Trying to hide my surprise I nodded and bared a large, toothy smile.

"I am very excited for tonight. Um, shouldn't you be…preparing yourself?" I motioned to her dressing gown.

"Yes, actually I was on my way to the final fitting of my costume. I just wanted to tell you that Madame Giry informed me that you will be needed at half-past six in the dressing rooms."

"Thank you, Charlotte," I said inching my way towards the door, "You best hurry off to your fitting, you and I both know Madame Dunatelle does not like to be kept waiting." And with a sarcastic smirk and a light chuckle, she took her leave.

I had just over an hour to myself and I could not remember the last time I had watched the sun set. I decided to retreat to the Opera House roof and relax there for awhile. I grabbed my modest wool coat from the closet and stepped out into the halls. I stepped into chaos. People were everywhere! Some were running madly to and fro, bursting through various doors, only to dash back in moments later. Some were shouting orders, in multiple dialects, and directing the cast to rehearsals. I weaved my way in and out of the crowd, finally reaching the windy staircase that would lead me up to the roof. I sighed, already growing weary at the thought of the journey that lay ahead of me. Adjusting my skirts, I lifted them slightly from the floor and began to climb. I could not have risen more than three flights when a small envelope fluttered down, landing neatly at my feet. With much curiosity and excitement rising in my veins, I snatched up the letter quickly with my hands. I glanced around, searching for any sign of anyone, though I knew no one was.

I recognized the seal immediately and my legs flew out in front of me, sprinting up the remaining steps with effortless bounds. Thrusting the heavy wooden door open, the eerie orange glow of the setting Parisian sun engulfed my presence. The view was spectacular, and for a brief, a very brief, moment I completely lost myself in its splendor. The warm rays pulsed down upon my messy waves, the cool air blowing through them. I sat under a statue of an angel, or some sort of mythical God, I did not remember for my attention was directed elsewhere.

Holding my breath, my heart pounding underneath my ribs, I examined the letter. A wide, blissful grin broke out from my face as I stared at the red, waxy seal. It was from Him! Gently, with much care, I removed the letter from the envelope and began to read it.