A few memories of that day passed through my mind, accompanied by the weight of various thoughts and feelings, confused and entangled. The tiredness I felt was intoxicating and my body was collapsed on the bed. I was almost asleep when I heard something, faint at first, then a little more distinguishable.

A soft voice. Beautiful, unmistakably beautiful. It was calling my name, in a melodic whisper. Instead of startling me, it led me to a hypnotizing numbness, and I felt as if I was floating. As the voice insisted for me, the sense of reality finally touched me. The sound came from very close, from behind the wall.

It was the Phantom.

He sounded high-spirited that night, his smooth pitch surrounding me in the darkness. I thought of the beckoning man, and didn't recall the sight hidden by the mask. I felt as if I was under a spell. My name sounded so pure, spoken by him…

"Meg? Do you know who this is?"

"Uh-huh." How true it was...

"Meg, I came here to talk about your mother's job."

He was gentle, and it felt as if his voice could caress me and embrace me, leaving no option but to follow it blindly.

He continued, "I am aware I caused her troubles. Unwillingly, but I did. I will restore her position as soon as possible, be assured. Please tell her there is no need to cry anymore. I always appreciated her service, and would not let it stay like this."

"Ah, so you were listening when she came home, weren't you?" I said, more accusingly than I intended to.

"Yes." he said simply, and then hesitated for a while, as if considering whether he should voice his thoughts.

"Meg…why did you not tell the Persian what he wanted to know?"

His doubt was genuine, and he had probably been thinking exhaustively about this. I answered effortlessly, as it seemed pretty obvious to me, "Because I care for you."

He was silent for some time.

"Why?" he asked, more to himself than to me, very sincerely and surprised.

There was sad evidence that he terminally failed in finding something special about himself. Something that would make him worthy of being loved, perhaps? The irony was that he, more than anybody else, I thought, deserved to be loved.

And it would be so easy to love him, if it was not for...

I felt an incredible compassion for this man, but didn't say anything. The sight of his face had come back to my mind, haunting me as some kind of lingering nightmare.

It was a physical reaction, and no amount of good will and good intentions could completely shake it away. At least not yet.

I felt very uncomfortable at his presence, all the sudden, duelling with contrasting feelings.

I didn't have a definitive image of him anymore. I thought of his voice, the beautiful way he pronounced every word, and couldn't imagine it coming from that face, the flow of his rich voice and soft gentleness touching those wretched lips. It was almost as if it was two different persons, one was a perfect abstraction, while the other one was a deep and terrifying reality.

Yes, he was real. The horror, as well as the attraction he inspired in me, they were both real.

Therefore, it was also a relief having a confirmation that he did exist, that he was not a figment of my wandering imagination.

But whether my mind was a mess or not, it was no concern of his, and I had promised myself to do all that was in my reach to never let him know I had seen him unmasked.

So, leaving those thoughts unheard and forgotten in a corner of my mind, and ignoring his last question, I asked, as naturally as I could,

"So…is your true name really Erik?"