First off I want to thank you all again for the reviews! You have no idea how much joy they bring me! I am sorry it took me so long to update, but I am a working college student and things can get pretty hectic around here.

Second, I believe it is time for me to give a shout out to my Muses. You know who you are! Thank you so much for your ideas, critiques, squees and constant urgings to make me write more.

A/N: I have changed a small section of this chapter. I had put something in as a split second decision and the more I read it, the less and less I liked it. It just doesn't fit right. SO, please read through again (that is if you want to LOL), so you can see the change! I actually really like what I put in instead.

Erik twirled the small knife in his long fingers and stared out the open window across from his desk. He longed to continue gazing at the magnificent architecture in front of him and not face the realities of his life. The setting sun caused the city to glow with a radiant orange fire. Next to a dinner plate laid the most recent letter from Madame Giry. She had been writing Erik since he left Paris and settled into his new residence. Every letter was read but rarely responded to. What was the point of informing her about the mundane happenings of his life? Surely she could not still be interested in the well being of a former opera ghost. He tore open the envelope with as much grace as a drunken stage hand and proceeded to read.

"…Meg and I are faring rather well this month. While there was never an actual need for it, your monthly envelope of funds will most assuredly not be necessary now. Not to imply that we are ungrateful, for we appreciate your generosity greatly, it is just uncalled for at this point. Giving private ballet lessons to these wealthy brats is proving to be most profitable and Meg is happy in her nanny position. So far they have not begun any renovations on the opera house and I am quite confused…"

Erik knew the rest would only be about the former Opera Populaire and the current news of Paris high society. No interest to him. So his gift of five-hundred francs a month was no longer needed was it? That was a bold faced lie. Madame Giry hated teaching private lessons and not instructing a ballet corp, she lived for the satisfaction of seeing her girls on stage. It was preposterous to think Meg could enjoy being a nanny in even the slightest way. As simple minded as she was, Meg knew she shined on the stage and was surely in agony at having to leave her dream in the past. There was no question about it, the small packet of money would continue to be sent out and Madame Giry was too intelligent to refuse it. Erik began to write a brief note to accompany his monetary contribution and there came a knock at his chamber door.

"Yes?"

"Pardon me signore, I have come to relieve you of your dinner tray."

"Come in."

Erik stood as his one servant entered the room. Stella Giamarco was a pleasant local girl of twenty two years. She had served Erik since he bought his home and moved from the small, and rather dingy in his opinion, apartment. Stella raised no questions about Erik's mask or any of his odd behavior. In fact, she rather admired her master, for she had seen his current project at work, and secretly listened when he played his piano late into the evening. As eccentric as Erik was, Stella believed him to be a good man who had somehow been wounded tragically in his life. She cleared the remnants of his supper and turned to find him staring determinately out the window.

"Is there anything else I can do for you signore?"

"No Stella, you may retire for the night. In the morning I need you to go to the bank and bring back the usual amount converted to francs. My new dinner suit should be finished so drop by the tailor's as well."

"Of course, goodnight signore."

The large double doors closed with a thunderous bang behind her. Erik sighed and stared into the twilight that engulfed the magnificent city. He could barely make out the forms of the two tower cupolas on the Trinita dei Monti. Just this very morning, before the rest of the world was awake, he had climbed the numerous steps of the Piazza di Spagna to study the architecture of the beautiful church. Though he sought no comfort in religion, Erik found the design and ornamentation of churches to often be the most stunning. As unorthodox as it was, he used these structures as inspiration for work. In fact, the entire city inspired not only his designs, but his music as well. Erik knew why he had returned to this place. Even though the memories of his youth were painful, the pleasant memories far outweighed the haunting ones. Other than his years in Paris, this was the one place Erik had truly found joy. Rome. It was the source of his first heartbreak and perplexingly, a place he felt able to start new and forget the woman who had ceased to haunt his dreams.

He slowly forgot her, day by day. It was like peeling off layers of water soaked wool clothing. Each memory weighed a thousand pounds and forgetting one made it that much easier to breathe. If he could disregard the agonizing past, Erik felt that life would become bearable. As long as she was in his mind, he could not be happy. Erik refused to have any grey areas in his life. Everything must be black or white, hot or cold, happy or sad. There was no logic to Christine. No logic to why he had loved her. No logic to why she left. No logic to why he had still cared.

"She is the grey area", he said aloud, slumping into the window seat. "I must continue to shut her out….she no longer gives me life, but destroys it instead. She is a grey fog...surround me...suffocating me".

He sucked in the sob that threatened to escape his chest and looked down to the courtyard that his home wrapped around. Stella walked past the center fountain and disappeared into her quarters. This was when he played. He would play his beloved piano and violin for hours on end. Until the memories were gone and all that remained was music. The beautiful, loving, painful music. No matter where life turned, Erik always could turn to music to save him from himself. Walking across the room he picked up his violin and began to play. He played until his mind was lost in a tune never played before, a composition born of love and hate. The music consumed him and Erik forgot who he was, and all that tortured him. He played until there was no strength left in his arms and finally, the wounded man succumbed to sleep, where she no longer remained.

Diego Ceravula looked up from the building plans laid across the table before him. He was a wealthy and well respected builder in Rome and his latest projects were no doubt becoming the talk of the town. Business was booming at this time of growth within the city. Since the fall of Napoleon in 1870 had allowed Italian troops to reenter and occupy Rome, in it had become the capital of Italy. It was this that launched the surge in construction under which entirely new quarters were being built. Currently, Diego's company had been working on a new palace for a local aristocratic family. They were extremely wealthy and because they were so incredibly pleased with how the structure was coming along, they gladly paid Diego every cent he solicited. Yet as much as he enjoyed the additional money and recognition, Diego could not help but feel guilty. For it was not himself that created the spectacular new design elements, but was his new foreman.

"Excuse me Signore Ceravula, Erik has arrived", said Pasqual Tucci as he quickly retreated from the now open office door. Erik strode in and remained standing even after Diego motioned for him to sit.

"Sir, I do believe that I told you the columns for the west wing of the servants quarters had to be completed by Monday, which is today", said a frustrated Erik.

"Erik, my friend, my collaborator, my favorite foreman. Why do you allow yourself to be agitated so easily? The workers will have it done by sunset, I am sure of it. Try not to forget yourself. Remember it is I who signs the checks. Don't you make that face at me, you know how I love to rile you. Pasqual is skilled at striking fear into the hearts of my many lazy employees while also maintaining their admiration, so do not fear. Your columns will be complete when you return in the morning."

"Thank you Diego. I am quite eager to begin work on the performance hall. It delights me that the family is inclined to have one, whether their interest in music is genuine or simply to make a good impression within their social circle."

"Why is it you are so passionate about this performance hall? You have never mentioned any curiosity in music before", Deigo inquired.

"Ah, well. For the vast majority of my life, music was my salvation."

"And now?"

"Now I have architecture. Music is my past. I live in the present. Dwelling in the past is dangerous for me."

There was an awkward silence as Erik suddenly realized how much he had revealed. Diego cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.

"Perhaps we should stop for the day. I am weary of work for now", said the ever decorous Erik.

"Yes! Of course, dinner at my house?", asked Diego.

Erik nodded while Diego stuffed papers and drawings into his portfolio to take home. He wondered about his mysterious friend and why he was so secretive about his former life. It had been seven months since Erik had noticed Diego's work around town and approached him with some ideas for the palace. Having been in the business for over twenty-five years, Diego was astonished at the unprecedented exceptionality of the architectural plans laid before him when he met Erik. There was no doubt that the masked man was a genius and over the months, the two had formed a warm friendship. Erik was grateful to have a friend, as was Diego. At fifty-one years of age, Diego Ceravula considered himself too young to be a widower, but could not fathom replacing his beloved Ciara. The two men continued their carefree banter as they left the office to go home early, for the pace of construction was due to increase in the next few weeks and then there would be no time for relaxation.

Meg Giry hurried in from another day attending to the spawn of careless and greedy aristocrats to find her mother sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands.

"Mother! What is wrong? Have we not got enough money for rent this month?"

"No darling…well, yes we have enough for rent…but…I have a letter from Christine. She is asking me for a way to contact Erik", responded an anxious Madame Giry.

"No! This cannot be good. He is doing so well in Rome and hearing from Christine would only reopen the pain in his heart. I love Christine, she is like my sister, but I do not think we can allow this."

"Meg, I cannot lie to Christine, she knows I am in contact with him. To refuse to help her would break any trust that has grown between us over these many years. I do not believe she has anyone else to turn to for assistance or to call her family. It is not for us to decide what she chooses to do or how Erik will react." Madame Giry pulled out her stationary and began to write a letter that would lead to the complete upheaval of the lives belonging to two people she loved as much as her own daughter.