I let out a shaky breath. Dried blood caked my hands which I was unable to still. I tried to wipe away the tears from my eyes with the heels of my hands so not to get any blood on my face. I sobbed. I had stabbed him, and now he was most likely dead by my hand. I had never stabbed anyone before, in fact, I had not ever even struck another person. The gendarmerie would find his body in my apartment and I would be implicated in the murder of my uncle.

I ran through the streets of Paris alone, in the dead of night. I had intended to find the mansion of the Comte de Changy and beg his younger brother, the Vicomte, for his assistance. I knew they would most likely have me arrested immediately, but Raoul had been in love with me for the past twelve years, and I had rather hoped for his help and discretion. I did not go to the mansion; rather, I went to the graveyard. Graveyards are disturbing enough in broad daylight, but I thought if I were to die that night, perhaps it would be a fitting location.

It only took me a moment to find my father's grave. "Papa," I sobbed, falling to my knees in front of the tombstone. "I have done something terrible, Papa, and I cannot fix it."

Tears streamed down my face and I hastily brushed them aside. I had been crying for nearly an hour and I was surprised that I had not yet dried up.

I noticed it had rained earlier that day. The ground was soft, and mud had begun to seep into the hem of my gown. I did not really care about my dress, though, I had just murdered a man. "He's dead," I kept whispering to myself, "He's dead and I'm glad that he's dead… I should be dead."

I sobbed again. I sobbed not because the scoundrel was dead, but because whatever was left of my innocence was now gone. A piece of myself died with my uncle, a piece of myself that would never be returned.

Presently, I felt the cool autumn air begin to chill my skin. I had not thought to bring a shawl, but I figured that one rarely thinks practically when fleeing a murder scene. The ground which once felt soft and damp underneath my boney knees had grown hard and cold. Perhaps I should lie down a moment, I thought to myself. My eyes felt heavy, and my limbs ached. I wished I could wind back time. I would be sitting at home in Sweden. Papa would play his violin, and Mama would bake vaniljkakor. A fire would crackle away in the hearth. All would be well. All would be at peace.

My head throbbed against the hard ground, but I did not have the strength to sit up again. I knew I was going to die, and that was okay. Everyone I had ever loved had died, and the only part of myself I had loved had also died. I deserved to die. Poor Raoul, I thought. He's in love with a murderer. He would not love me if he knew what I had done. I slowly drifted unconscious. I had not died as I had hoped, I had merely fallen into a restless sleep.

I did not consider there would be anyone else visiting a graveyard in the dead of night. There was a man there that night, clad in black, blending with the shadows. He had followed me there and watched as I poured my heart out to a gravestone. Once he was sure I was no longer awake, he draped his cloak around my shoulders, bringing me to my new home: The Palais Garnier Opera House.