Erik,
My love, I have a secret to tell you, one which I have kept from you for so long. Even though you have long since passed into the Great Unknown, what I have done, there is no excuse for it.
My dear Erik, you never knew it, but you ended up being a father in the end. A little girl, yes. Luckily, there were no deformities upon her face or head, but extraordinarily thin and gaunt—like her real father, you, Erik. Like you. She has her own family now, Erik. And she never knew who her real father was or looked like.
Her children are slightly deformed: all bout two, the youngest. Her oldest two were the worst. Why, I do not know. They are her oldest, Laith, and second in line, Nikita. I believe they are all happy. I hope you are, too, my love.
--Christine de Chagny
Christine carefully folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and hid it in a secret drawer in the jewelry box she had received as a wedding present from an anonymous giver.
That night, at the grand old age of 75, Christine slipped into eternal slumber, peaceful at last.
FIN