Nils Daae's funeral drew so many mourners that the police had to cordon off the graveyard to allow only close friends, Opera staff, the orchestra, and his daughter near the burial site. The music the orchestra made floated through the city, slowing passers by and swelling the crowd. When it came time for Christine to sing, she stood beside the mahogany casket, clasped her hands, and reduced the entire audience to sobs by softly singing a piece of the Requiem.

She made it halfway through before she realized that she would not be able to finish. The notes stacked up in her chest, the words plugged her throat, and her voice faded away. Her panicked eyes scanned the crowd, seeing row after row of tearful faces. Without a word, she turned on her heel and ran as fast as she could back to the Opera house to her little room, where she locked the door and threw herself on the bed, moaning low in her throat. Still, tears would not come. After a while, mercifully, sleep did.

When she woke to the sound of Mme Giry calling and knocking at her door, she yelled, "No thank you, Madame! I want to be alone!" and pulled the blankets over her head. Mme Giry stood outside the door for several long moments before deciding that a few hours alone might do the girl good and bustling off to her plethora of tasks.

When the air under the blankets became unbreathable, Christine dragged herself from the bed and realized that the little apartment was chilly. There had not been a fire in the grate since Mme Giry carried her off four days before. Fortunately, there was firewood, kindling, and several long matches set neatly on the hearth. Soon, a little fire began to infuse the area with warmth and life. When the flames were established, Christine turned to climb up into her father's chair, but stopped short at the sight of the rose, now dry and withered.

"The door was locked," she whispered. "The door was locked and Mme Giry has the only other key." She caressed the fragile petals with gentle fingers, and then examined the black velvet ribbon.

On the other side of the parlor mirror, Erik had been patiently waiting. Each morning and evening he came to the little hidden chamber to await Christine's return. The Opera Ghost had nothing but time, and patience. Now, his instrument stood before him, caressing the rose he had left behind. He moved close to the glass and gathered his courage. I alone know what she needs, he thought, and the thought bolstered him. Softly, so that Christine wondered if the voice was real or just en echo in her mind, he spoke her name.

"Christine…" She looked up, her eyes searching the room for the source of the voice. Again, the voice spoke, warm and low. "Christine…listen…" The little girl spun around, wide-eyed, seeing no one. There was a silence in which Christine began to wonder if she hadn't been imagining things, and then the beautiful, low voice began to sing. Requiem. The Lacrimosa. Christine's breath caught in her throat.

The voice sang a cappella, but it needed no chorus; each note implied harmonies surrounding it. It filled the room; coming from every angle, caressing her like the warmth of the fire. It thawed her frostbitten heart from icy numbness to burning emotion. Each word was sung with deep mournful longing; the music spoke inside her mind. "Weep," it whispered, "Weep for those lost, and those left behind…"

Erik watched with pity and satisfaction as the little face crumpled in on itself and the little chest began to heave with broken sobs. He brought his song to a close, lingering on each note. Christine buried her face in her skirts as her grief raged through her. She cried long and hard, feeling as though there weren't enough tears in the world to drain the hurt of loss. When her sobs tapered off to shuddering sighs and moans, Erik threw his voice to her father's chair.

"Shhh, Christine. You don't need to cry anymore. I'm here now."

She jerked her head up from her skirts and eyed her father's chair with trepidation. "Daddy?" she asked, hopefully.

"No, Christine. I am not your father. I am he your father promised to you." The slightest twinge of guilt at the deception disturbed Erik's calm, but he easily dismissed it. This was the best thing for the child, for both of them, really. She would have her Angel, and he would have his instrument.

"You are the…the Angel of Music?" She began dabbing at her eyes, embarrassed to appear before an angel in disarray.

Erik smiled and allowed his voice to reflect his smile. "Yes, Christine. I am the Angel of Music, sent to give your voice wings. Your voice is a beautiful bird in a cage. If you listen well, if you do as I say, we shall let that bird out of its cage and teach it to fly."

Christine rose from the floor and moved to sit on the footstool near the cracked leather chair, just as she had when her father was alive. She believed completely; it showed in her flushed face and in the way she leaned towards the chair to better hear her "visitor". "I would like that very much, M. Angel. Please, did my Daddy ask you personally to come?"

She wants assurance that all is well with her father. thought Erik. Why not?

"You want to know if your father is in heaven?"

She nodded dumbly.

"Of course he is." Erik felt ridiculous, talking about a place he did not believe existed, but she was smiling and he continued. "And the Angels stop their singing to hear him play. But we must talk about you." He made his tone firm, commanding. "There will be rules to abide by. First, you must always do as I say, without question. Second, you must not tell anyone else - save, perhaps, Madame Giry - about me. This must be our secret. Third, music and singing must be first in your thoughts at all times. You will avoid…distractions. Fourth, you must expand your learning beyond what is taught here. I will bring you books to study. Can you do these things, Christine? Or shall I go back whence I came?"

"No!" Christine yelped, jumping to her feet. "Please, stay. I can do those things. I will do anything you ask. I promise."

"That is good, then. You look very tired. Fatigue will weaken your voice; starting tonight, you get nine hours of sleep every night. Go ahead and prepare for bed. Don't worry, your bedroom will always be a private space for you. When you are ready to sleep, call me."

Obediently, Christine went to her bedroom, washed her face and hands, changed into her nightgown, and climbed into bed. At first, she thought she would be too excited to sleep, but when she let her head sink into the down pillow with its crisp linen case, she realized how exhausted she really was. When she had snuggled down amongst the bedclothes, she called timidly, "Angel? Are you there?"

By way of an answer, his voice floated around her in the soft strains of a French lullaby. For the first time in days, Christine felt herself drifting down into sleep without the aid of laudanum, which had given her terrible nightmares. This felt so much gentler! Thoughts of her father, which had only been a grief to her since his death, now flooded her with happiness and warmth. Even in death he had kept his promise to his daughter, sending her the Angel of Music to care for her and teach her. Before the second stanza joined the first, Christine's breathing was deep and steady, her eyes closed, her body limp. Erik could not see her, but when his listening ears could not hear even the slightest motion from the bedroom, he finished the lullaby and made his stealthy way back to his home.