He had let her go again. Bottling up all the courage within him, he had simply let her walk away to vanish back into the crowd leaving him at the main entrance of his apartment building. She wanted to thank him, that was all. Why couldn't he have told her who he was?

It was a week later and a spring rain was falling on the town of Montmartre. Christian was out walking, taking in the smell of the crisp water that fell upon the leaves and pavement. For the most part, he was alone in the street except for a few hobos rummaging through a few trashcans nearby.

His dark hair clung to the side of his face, and his clothes were pressed to his toned thin body. He wore a high collared shirt and vest which was unbottoned. His slacks were soaked from the shin down. From where he was standing, he saw the sillohuette of the Moulin Rouge in all it's dismal glory. Water catching into his eyes, Christian closed them so he could wipe the droplets away. His mind once again fell into a flashback.

He was standing in front of the Moulin Rouge calling out to Satine. She had just denied her love to him and insisted that she stay with the Duke. How could he have ever been foolish enough to believe her? He had always wondered how she had been able to lie to him, even though he knew full well she had done it to protect him from the Duke.Oh, how he hated and despised that man. He had left shortly before Satine's death, never to be seen since.

Christian couldn't help but wonder what would've happened if Satine had left the Moulin Rouge with him; if she had thrown away her career, the show, the riches, and had ran away so that they could be together. What would've life been like if she was never sick and hadn't died? Would Christian be standing as he was now, looking up at the Moulin Rouge, letting it's ghostly presence overwhelm him with all these memories and what ifs?

We could've been married, he thought. We could've moved away to London, or maybe to America where we could've lived in love and peace away from the Duke. We could've raised a family, grown old together, spent every evening in eachother's arms while watching the sun set.

Christian was always thankful that he had had his chance with Satine. Even though it had only been a few months, he had been able to hold her, to kiss her, to love her in every way possible. She had been his, he had been hers. They had loved and shared something no soul could touch, not Zidler, not the Duke, not anybody. He had found his greatest happiness with her, and her alone.

The sound of thunder up ahead made Christian's fantasies of his future never-to-be come to a hault, bringing him back to the ever gloomy Montmartre streets. Again, Christian wiped away the water from his eyes, only this time it wasn't rain, but tears.

The cold rain had brought shivers to Christian and he thought it best to head back home. However, he wanted to first stop by the post office and see if he had recieved any telegrams, most importantly, one from Van Weldon.

What Christian had taken to the publisher nearly a week and a half earlier was his story. The story. Theone piece of writingthat he had poured every ounce of his soul and energy into, the story that he had written for Satine. Initially, he had wanted to keep it a secret, forevor hide it from the world while living in the comfort of his grief. But over time, he wanted to share with everyone what had been the most beautiful part of his life.The memory of Satine did not belong in a pile on his desk or even trapped in Christian's mind for the rest of his exhistance.

"Nothing today!" the post man shouted at Christian as he walked by the post office.

Greatly dissapointed, he turned away in the direction of his apartment.

Coming up the stairs Christian noticed a small envelope on his door. Maybe this was the telegram from Van Weldon! With excitement, he rushed to his door and pealed off the envelope thuroughly searching it for a name or something that said it was from his publisher. Finding nothing, he opened it anyways to find a fairly short handwritten letter. It read:

Dear Christian,

It has been quite some time since our parting and I am writing to you to say this:

I want to thank you deeply for what you did for me several months ago. If you hadn't come to get me, I surely would haveremained there, possibly dying as a result of my injuries. I was also ill beforehand and in need of medical attention to get healthy. However, I was poor withno place to live. I found you in the street that autumn night, cold and unconcious, and because of an irrational idea, thought that if I brought you back to your apartment, you could possibly agree to giving me a place to stay. I am terribly sorry for impeeding into your life and thoughtlessly disturbing you as much as I did. My intention was not to cause you grief. I understand now why you acted the way you did and I apologize for notunderstanding at the time.

If at all possible, I would like to thank you in person and repay you for the kindness that you showed me last year. I will be waiting in the Montmartre Park at precisely noon tomorrow. If you fail to show up, I will not take it in offense. Just know that I forgive you, whether you're sorry or not, for what happened.

Sincerely, a friend

There was no name. The letter had ended as such.. Christian knew this was Victora's doing, there was no mystery involved. But should he go to her? Should he risk making her upset by showing up? He didn't know what to do. He thought about his decision late into the night eventually fallinginto restless sleeparound dawn.