Months passed on with Christine respecting her teacher's privacy, not wanting to disturb his recent, fairly positive moods. Erik began watching her more often from his hiding places in the rafters and walls of the stage area, as he didn't have much else to occupy his time with. He noticed her soft-spoken behavior and which members of the whole cast treated her nicely or vice versa. As the resident ghost, it was his duty to maintain people's beliefs in him by occasionally wreaking havoc or playing pranks on them, along with making requests of the directors. He didn't earn 20,000 francs a month for nothing.

As the grueling rehearsal for their production of Orlando ended that evening, and the cast cleared off the stage, Erik noticed the pale pink ribbon Christine had been wearing earlier left on the floor. It must've slipped off during her practice of double pirouettes, leaving her brown curls to their disorderly natural state. Quickly making a plan to retrieve the scrap of cloth, the masked man snuck down to the vacated orchestra pit, covering his silhouette with a black cape. Walking below the stage, he pushed up one of the stage trapdoors and slipped his gloved hand out to grab the ribbon. His mission was a success and he'd gone completely unnoticed, bringing a smirk onto Erik's thin lips as he made his way to the chapel where his Christine would shortly arrive for a lesson.

She was so relieved to have found her missing ribbon on the windowsill of the chapel, knowing that her angel had retrieved it for her. He didn't bother to acknowledge her thanks, though he fought off a smile while instructing the young ballerina to begin her scales. Christine tried to be more careful with her pink hair ribbon, and yet it still ended up in the hands of her teacher then eventually in the locked desk drawer. Erik didn't doubt that the drawer would become a storage space for various trinkets relating to his student.

He caught her a different evening around the same time, only now talking to a fellow friend in the corps du ballet. This girl was the blonde, slight gossip, Meg Giry who happened to be the daughter of the woman that saved him as a child. They giggled, making comments and cracking jokes about things that happened throughout the rehearsal.

"Oh Christine, your part in the chorus was wonderful! You must teach me to sing like that." Meg insisted.

"I've had some lessons. And I suppose part of it was my father encouraging me to sing all the time as a child." Christine shrugged modestly.

"Lessons? Who from? And when?" The blond asked, clearly finding it difficult to hold back her curiosity.

"I don't know his name. But my father promised to send me the Angel of Music when he died, so that's what I know my teacher as."

"Do you really think your father sent him to you?"

"Perhaps. He's never given me a reason not to trust him and he's never been unkind. But if you've heard a difference from my old voice only through the one line we sing, I'm sure my teacher isn't deceiving me with his musical knowledge."

Erik overheard Christine defending him, wondering why she felt the need to do so. She wasn't gaining anything from making him sound benevolent in her friend's mind, and yet Christine deflected some of the more personal questions aimed toward the topic of her unknown instructor. Yet another smile grew across his face as he felt a slight warming feeling in his chest for the trusting young girl, the one of them who truly deserved the title of "angel".

- - - Current time - - -

The rosy pink ribbon was tied into a neat bow and pasted into the heavy book. Its color matched that of Christine's cheeks when she blushed...or her parted lips whenever she sang for her teacher. It was impossible to deny that his fondness for the kind-hearted girl was continuously growing. The Daroga was careful to mention his suspicion of Erik's attachment to her, not wanting to anger his temperamental friend.

- - - Several years earlier - - -

Erik was pounding the keys of his organ, only being drawn out of his music-making world by a clearing of a throat during a moment of rest. He turned around, an initial rush of anger overtaking him, then resolving himself upon seeing his Persian friend's concerned face sitting down on a nearby chair.

"What is it Daroga?" The masked man huffed exasperatedly.

"I'm simply visiting the man who refuses to live aboveground and is teaching a young girl to sing through the walls of an opera house chapel."

"And you thought it would be a good idea to intrude on my playing?"

"I'm a busy man, my friend. Have you still been bothering that Christine?"

"If you have come to insult me, Daroga, you can leave now."

"I don't mean to offend you."

"Christine's lessons haven't been terminated, if that is what you're curious about. However, she could simply refuse to come so it is in no way a bother to her."

"Some cast members did mention hearing a maturation of her voice as I was watching rehearsals the other day. Your instruction seems to be benefiting her."

"That is quite the point of lessons."

Erik scribbled in a measure of music onto the paper before him.

The Daroga sighed, trying to discreetly bring up his concern for the girl.

"What do you plan for the future, Erik? Surely she isn't going to be satisfied with your vague explanation as to who you are forever."

At this, the musician turned around.

"Christine, shall she wish to dedicate herself to music, will become a Prima Donna. I will try to answer any questions she may pose, though she's very rarely been bold enough to ask anything of her teacher."

"And if she is offered to work elsewhere?"

"This is one of the most renowned opera houses in Europe. I doubt Christine will wish to leave."

"But if she does-"

"Unless you wish to provoke my temper, I suggest you stop speaking, Daroga."

And with that snappy response, Erik was back at pounding at the organ and composing in his notebook. His Persian friend left him alone, shaking his head at the ever-so-short patience of the masked man. But the Daroga's wisdom caused Erik's mind to wander: what if Christine was to become more curious? Or perhaps she would travel elsewhere and leave him to his solitude?

The familiar, yet unwelcome feeling of tears welling up in his eyes made him pause his organ-playing to wipe them with a sleeve. A wild imagination had ruined his mood, turning his dramatic melody much more somber and desperate. There would only be the Daroga and the affairs of the opera house to his life, neither of which brought him as much joy as teaching his young student. It was a dark fate that his masked face had doomed him into, only allowing Erik to conceal himself in order to communicate with, even very few, other people.