Author's note: Thank you all who reviewed! I truly appreciate it. It is always encouraging to know that this piece is getting read. Though no one has yet to raise concern over the plot, I promise that eventually the two other leads will make their appearance-but since the Phantom is so pivotal to the rest of the story, it is important to spend ample time fleshing out his background.

Shall we?

1849—Paris

Monsieur Jevou brushed the flour from his hands upon the stained apron. The sun was just starting to show its face over the waking city, promising warmth from the chill air. The baker hardly noticed, the ovens long since causing sweat to drip over his brow.

Pulling the fresh loaves from the oven, he added them to the platter already filled with crêpes and pastries and placed them in the store window. Stepping back, the man admired his handiwork. Without doubt, his was the finest bakery in Paris. There was not a single aristocrat who did not require his culinary talents at their grandiose affairs. There were so many requests, he mused, that he often had to refuse them. Yes, his baked fineries were unsurpassed…

His smile dissolved as he glanced upon another pair of eyes.

"You!" the man growled, making for his broom. The streets were filled with vagabonds, but this little masked derelict's subtle thievery exceeded that of most facile attempts. He would be absent for weeks at a time, but whenever the masked face appeared, baked goods were sure to depart.

The hazel eyes narrowed, and the baker had little doubt there was a grin beneath the mask. His face reddening, he bolted out the door waving the broom. Moments later, he landed on the ground beside a dumbfounded servant.

"Oh, pardon me, Mademoiselle," he entreated, getting to his feet. "I did not see you there…"

She stood and brushed off her skirt, her lips pursed. Clearing his throat, the baker lifted up her basket and opened the door, a hapless smile plastered over his face. Without a word, she strode inside. Sighing, the man followed her, but not before taking a glance at the window display.

All of the crêpes were gone.

1851—Paris

The first snowflakes of winter fell softly on the Parisian streets. The boy walked through the shadows, his face turned away from the gray sky above. He listened to the eager voices of children beside their parents, their faces lifted upwards to catch the flakes. Only able to stretch out a hand, he watched sadly as the perfectly formed crystals disappeared upon meeting his touch, small water droplets the only remnant of their former beauty.

Stopping in an abandoned street, he leaned against a wall, his frail body overcome by another series of coughs. Gasping, he tore off the mask, taking in the cold air.

"If I had some hot tea, I would give it to you."

The boy snapped up his head, pulling on the mask. His eyes wide, he saw the old woman huddled against the same wall, buried under layers of shawls.

The coughing subsided, the boy watched his onlooker warily. The old woman sat on an overturned crate, nestled between a large dog and a basket of fresh blood-red roses at her side.

"Oh, don't mind him," she chuckled, nodded toward the dog, "only his fleas bite." A withered hand appeared from beneath the worn clothing, beckoning the boy forward. He did not move.

The old woman tilted her head. "Why the hesitation? You sound young."

"You saw me."

She laughed. "Yes and no, but why should it matter?" Her lips broke into a smile as she heard the quiet footsteps approach, stopping a few feet away from her.

"There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Clouded eyes stared at him, unblinking.

"You're…"

The old woman shrugged and lowered a hand down the level of the dog's mouth, the pink tongue lapping over her fingers. "I do not miss it," she said without looking up, "the blind see better than most."

Giving the dog one last pat on the head, she straightened again, turning back to the boy.

"You have a good heart. I do not need my eyes to see that."

The boy looked down at the roses, snowflakes glistening on the brilliant petals.

As though sensing his gaze, the old woman slowly reached down and felt for a flower, tenderly picking up the long stem. A finger stroked the crimson petal, her distant stare moved past the boy.

"Roses were always my favorite. They have all the thorns of ill-fated shrub, but its flower is unmatched in splendor."

"Indeed."

She smiled. "Ah, another lover of beauty. I am pleased." Leaning forward, her shaking hand held out the rose toward the boy.

"I suppose you are a bit young to hold a young lady in affection, but when you find her, give her the flower that speaks of your heart."

The boy nodded and gently took the rose from the outstretched hand, its scarlet shade brilliant against the gray and white world surrounding them.

The street lamps burned low, hardly breaking through the dark night. The young couple moved cautiously through the abandoned streets, their head bowed against the merciless wind. Christmas wreaths slapped against closed doors. All around them, windows were lit, the warm glow mocking.

The woman paused, her hand resting against the brick wall of a building.

"Atali?" the man asked, drawing close to her. The woman shuttered, a hand resting over her swollen belly. Biting her lip, she pushed away from the wall, smiling weakly. "I will be fine…" she replied in their native tongue.

Her husband set down the violin case and took her hands, rubbing them between his own.

"The man said the inn is not far," he said between chattering teeth, "we will find a warm room...and I can find you a doctor."

His wife glanced back up at him, her eyes betraying her nervous excitement. Nodding, she leaned against her husband as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her close to him. They had moved no more than a few feet when she stopped abruptly.

"What is it?"

She did not answer, moving away from his side.

Raising a hand in futile attempt to stop her, her husband watched as Atali kneeled beside a still form. The violin case clamped tightly under his numb arm, he let out a sigh and followed. After a moment, his eyes focused through the shadows to the small, sleeping figure lying against the cold wall, a thin blanket covering the scraps of clothing. The face was covered, save for the portion cut around the eyes, the skin pallid. The cold night gave away no sign of breath.

"Atali…"

The young woman looked up at her husband with wet eyes. "He is just a child," she whispered, staring back at the still form. "We cannot leave him here…"

Her husband's eyebrows knit. There were countless homeless scattered through the Parisian streets that drew no more than a pitied glance. What then, drew her to this child among many? Had she forgotten that their present situation hardly differed?

A reluctant but gentle hand squeezed her shoulder. "Atali," he said quietly, "there is only enough money for the room…perhaps the doctor…"

After a long moment, she nodded, a tear trailing down her cheek. She moved closer, her hand wavering just over still form. Closing her eyes, she kissed the masked forehead, tears falling onto the fabric.

"May God send you an angel," she breathed, pulling away. She looked back up at her husband. With sad eyes, he took her hand in his own, and led her out of the alley before they disappeared once more into the night.