"I'm going," Christine deChagny announced promptly.

Her husband, the Vicomte Raoul deChagny, looked up from the book he was reading and raised his eyebrows.

"Where?" he inquired.

"The Opera Populaire."

Raoul stood up abruptly, walked over to her, and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Christine," he said sternly, "you must never go back there. Ever. Do you remember what happened last time we were there?"

"Of course I remember," she snapped, her eyes narrowing in wonder as to how he could ask that question, "but I have to see Erik."

"Why on earth would you want to see him? You don't even know if he's alive."

"Yes, he is. He's back at the Opera."

"How do you know?"

"I just know it. I knew he'd come back eventually, and it's been 39 years now. He's probably been back for quite some time."

He sighed and shook his head. "Why would go you want to go back there, though, especially after all we went through the last time we were there?"

"To see Erik."

"No, Christine," he said rather crossly. "You are not allowed to see that horrid man ever again. Am I understood?"

"Raoul, do you want a constant reminder of that horrid man living in your house?"

Raoul tenderly touched his hands to his neck, remembering how Erik had nearly killed him all those years ago with his infamous Punjab lasso. He didn't want this child to do that to him.

"No," he said softly, looking at his wife. "No, I don't want that... of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

"Then I have to go back and give her to him. I'm sure he's quite lonely. He might be rather glad to have her."

He considered for a moment before sighing resignedly. "Very well. When do you leave?"

"Right after supper, if you don't have any objections to that."

"That will be fine, I suppose. And you won't stay there long, will you... you'll just give him the child and come straight back?" He placed a hand on his wife's arm. "I don't trust him alone with you. Say you'll come back right after."

"Of course, dear."

"Very good. I'll have the carriage ready for you."

"Thank you," she said, then leaning forward slightly and kissing his cheek.

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After supper, Christine wrapped her young child in a blanket, gathered a few items she'd had to entertain her, and then climbed into the carriage that was headed to the Opera Populaire, the baby in her arms.

When she entered the old opera house, child in her arms, she gazed around with wonder, amazed that it had been untouched for all this time. It was covered with ashes due to the fire that had occurred that fateful night, and there, lying in pieces on the seats, was the shattered chandelier, which had once been so beautiful, looking the same as it had the night that it had crashed to the floor.

When she reached the catacombs below, she remembered the last time she'd been down here with Erik, along with Erik's beautiful voice singing angry words. The words echoed in her head now.

Down once more to the dungeons of my black despair!

Down we plunge to the prison of my mind!

Down that path into darkness deep as hell!

She continued walking, reminiscing about that night so many years ago, until she reached the lake. There, just as she'd hoped, she found the gondola that Erik had carried her in so long ago, floating on the lake. It was almost as if it was waiting for her.

She couldn't help but smile gratefully as she stepped onto the gondola, picking up the paddle and beginning to row with one arm, her other arm holding onto Erik's sleeping child.

After a few minutes in which she rowed the gondola silently, the gate that hid Erik's home from everyone who ever came on the lake came in view. As she'd expected, it was closed.

Oh, please just let it open, she thought to herself. She didn't wish to sing those high notes that had caused the gate to open the first night she'd met Erik. Her voice wasn't as good as it had once been.

Fortunately, the gate opened and the curtain was drawn back when she got closer. Just as it had been when she'd seen the gondola on the shore of the lake, it was as if some strange spirit in the Opera had known that she would be arriving.

As she then rowed the gondola into Erik's home, heading toward the shore, she caught sight of Erik for the first time in 39 years.

There he was, his back turned to her, hunched over at his organ with his pen in his hand, apparently working on some piece of music.

When he heard the gate close, he turned around, and she saw that he hadn't aged a bit. His face was exactly as she remembered it, with his beautiful grey-green eyes, his same black hair slicked back, and, most notable of all, his white half-mask covering the right half of his face. Christine wondered if he'd even gotten older; perhaps he had really been a ghost for all of those years.

When Erik had turned around, he saw her, a woman he thought he'd never see again, stepping off of his gondola and onto the shore of the lake, a bundle in her arms.

"Christine!" he exclaimed, obviously surprised by this sudden appearance, and she noted that, like everything else about him that she could see, his voice hadn't changed, either.

He walked towards her, as graceful and quick as ever, until he faced her, stunned by how unchanged she was in appearance. The only thing different about her was her hair color. The brown curls were gray now, but they were still just as long and curly as he remembered, and her face was still heartrendingly lovely - the same face that he'd fallen in love with.

He was so completely surprised to see her, period, and she so completely surprised to see him so unchanged, that they stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, completely at a loss as to how to start a conversation.

"Hello, Erik," she finally said, her brown eyes fixed fearfully on the mask that hid his deformity. "You haven't aged a bit... you're just as I remember you."

He wasn't quite sure as to what to say to that, so he simply nodded silently, still too surprised and confused to say anything to her.

Why was she here, and why now, after 39 years? What was it, exactly, that she had come to him for? Surely she didn't want anything to do with him, especially after he had nearly killed a man that was now most assuredly her husband.

"Christine," he said slowly, going about this as carefully as possible, "what are you here for? You and I haven't seen each other in nearly 40 years. Surely you have better things to do than associate with me any longer?"

After another moment in which she continued to look at his face, she glanced into his eyes before looking down at her sleeping daughter - that daughter that was hers and also Erik's.

"This is your daughter," she explained, holding out the bundle while she wondered how he would react to something like this. "I... I don't want her, so I thought that you might like to have her. She's yours to care for, if you wish."

He looked down at what was being held towards him and saw it amongst the blankets - the face of a sleeping baby, and on its right side, a deformity exactly like his. Upon seeing that, he instantly knew this was, indeed, his daughter, and Christine was the mother. How or why the baby had been conceived or born was utterly beyond him, but he knew for a fact that he didn't care. This was his daughter, which was all he needed to know.

As he grasped all of this, a wave of compassion swept over him, and he took the bundle that was his daughter into his arms, looking down at her in wonder.

"Yes. Yes, of course," he said softly, looking back up from his daughter to the woman standing in front of him. He nodded to her. "Thank you, Christine."

She nodded and turned her back on him, then stepping onto the gondola and beginning to row back to the upper levels of the Opera Populaire. After a moment, she was out of sight, never to be seen again by the masked man who loved her or the daughter she'd left behind, as the gate closed and the curtain fell behind her.

After another moment of looking after her, Erik looked back down at his deformed daughter, who was continuing to sleep peacefully in his arms.

"Christine," he murmured. "Christine, my baby girl."