Veronique woke in a strange man's arms. He was carrying her down a long and dimly lit hallway. She gazed up at his face and was surprised to find that the right side of his face was covered in a mask whiter than snow. His hair was jet-black, and his stride seemed to say that he was the owner of this mysterious place. He carried her effortlessly; his chiseled frame nearly bulging out of his perfectly tailored suit. His masculinity extruded from his persona, and yet he was humming in the most beautiful tenor voice. Veronique realized that he was making the music she had heard earlier as they reached a canal with a gondola awaiting their arrival.

As he gently placed her in the gondola and began to row, he studied her young face. Her deep green eyes puddled and told a tale of suffering and distress. Long, curly jet-black hair cascaded down her back, reminding him of the way Christine's had. But he quickly shook her out of his head. She had moved on, and he knew he must move on as well. He continued studying Veronique. She was naturally slender, but her starvation showed in the way her ribs protruded from her dress, if you could call it that. The rags she wore were tattered and gray, as though she had worn it every day through hard labor and toil. He guessed she was around twelve or thirteen because it appeared that she had just begun puberty. She seemed tall for her age, as she had come up to his chest when she was standing. Her olive skin peeked through the rags that barely covered her body.

Veronique felt a bump, and knew that they must have arrived at their destination. He helped her out of the gondola carefully, as though she was extremely fragile and would break with the slightest bump. He whipped off his cloak, and began showing her around.

He spoke in the deepest voice, "Welcome to the prison of my mind." His words confused her, but she listened, grateful to be out of the cold.

Veronique had many thoughts rushing through her mind, but only had one question for this mysterious man. "M-M-Monsieur," she spoke with a tremble, "if you please, what may I call you?"

Her politeness touched his heart, but he quickly spoke with dignity, "Erik. You may call me Erik." With that, he began to sing to her. He had only performed this song once for... for her..., but he was happy to sing it again. It was the song of his life, and how he had been trapped with nothing but his music. His music of the night...