A/N-….I'm baaaaaaaaaaack.

I spent every moment possible in the area surrounding that café. The show had run its course, so my services were no longer needed there. I painted half-heartedly, afraid to get too involved should I miss her.

The days sped by. Soon my week had come to an end. The feeling was somewhat bittersweet. I wanted to search every square inch of the city, but I missed my mother. Funny that the evil Phantom had become such a momma's boy.

But Christine was here with me, having a second chance along with me. She had barely lived when her short life was ended. I was certain our paths would cross once again. Had I not actually seen her in the flesh I would be leaving Paris depressed.

But there was hope. Hope was something I had clung to in my former life. I suppose I would in this one too.

I gathered my paint supplies and pedaled back toward the dorms. I left my bicycle with a boy a few years my junior as I wouldn't need it any longer. My flight left early the next morning, so I double checked my packing. I had cashed in about half of my old francs and I was taking the rest with me. That would be a nice little chunk of money set aside for the rest of my schooling.

I set the alarm clock and sat on my bed. Thinking. There are so many thoughts in my mind. Eventually I laid back and drifted off to sleep.

The high-pitched whine of my alarm clock had me up in an instant. The Parisian sky was still dark as I took my last shower and called for a cab. I paced back and forth, waiting for my cab. When it arrived I told him to take me to her grave once more.

I asked the driver to wait and explained I would be a few minutes but he would get a nice tip. He nodded and cut the engine.

As I watched the waves crash I thought back to when Christine was around ten and I was still her Angel of Music. She would tell me silly stories of the sea. She was rather a silly girl most of the time. She would giggle and laugh. But the stories reminded her of her father. So laughing would change to tears. So young to have lost both parents…so very young. I hadn't been much older, but I didn't lose my mother. I left her. Suddenly I couldn't wait to be home. Still I paused to run my fingers over her name…the roses…even the stone itself. I pressed my lips to my fingers, then pressed my fingers to her name.

The cabbie was still there thankfully, and we were soon on our way to the airport. I gave him the tip I promised and began my journey home.

Mother was pleased to listen to my recap of my trip. I left much of it out, such as the grave, the trip to my lair, and Christine altogether. She cried when I showed her my paintings of the tower and the city.

Unsure of whether the time difference was taking its toll on me or if my lack of sleep was catching up with me, I excuse myself early to bed. She hugged me for probably what was the hundredth time since I'd been home. As I hugged back, I realized how much I'd missed her. I glanced above her head to our last family portrait. I had just turned eleven. Father had been among the first deployed in the Gulf War. Among the first to die as well.

Mother was very brave. I knew it had to be killing her inside. I recalled how I had cried for hours upon finding Christine's remains. And she hadn't been my wife. I loved her, or at least as much as I could love. Mother was strong. I heard her many times weeping in her bedroom. I left her cry because sometimes you just need a good cry. The funeral was awful. There wasn't a body to bury. Just dog tags. She kept them on a delicate chain Father had given her the Christmas before.

I squeezed her and kissed her cheek. I said a last goodnight and headed to bed.