A/N: Originally part of a longer fic that was never written ... if it had to be sorted into a world, it'd probably be movie/musical ... can't remember right now if there are mirror-doors in Leroux ...
Disclaimer: Phantom of the Opera is (c) Andrew Lloyd Webber and a lot of other people, myself not included.
She thinks she is dreaming when she sees him, standing behind the mirror, waiting at the beginning of a fairy tale that can never have a happy ending. She waits for him to open it, but he won't, and she can't seem to remember how to move it aside.
She leans against the mirror and presses her hands to the glass, and on the other side he takes his fingertips and places them on hers, one by one by one. In the utter silence she can hear nothing but the beating of his heart, counting out three-four time in the dusty air; her own heart is strangely still.
Am I dreaming yet, Christine? he whispers, and his voice is like the falling of snow on a slumbering world.
But she is the one who is asleep, and long after the sun rises she will search for echoes in the shadows of monuments, looking for something she can never seem to find.