The rest of that day felt like a blur. I met several friendly ballerinas and members of the chorus, though they all seemed to share pretty faces and lithe slender figures. My "audition" was passable. I passed well enough into a lower position in the chorus, though I heard one of the managers comment that I was pretty enough, though decidedly "unremarkable."

As I lay in bed in the dormitories that night, I wondered again why I had been randomly plucked from a graveyard, and why the "Ghost" expected me to accept such a ridiculous proposition. Even though I readily accepted the position, I felt uneasy, that perhaps my bloody secret might not have been such a secret after all. I tried to push those thoughts aside, praying that perhaps my savior had merely been a kind, reclusive gentleman that brought me here because of his good nature. Perhaps he had simply stumbled upon a grieving young woman caked in mud and blood in a graveyard... at night – I breathed in slowly from my diaphragm, as my dear papa had taught me. I relaxed my hands, eased tensed neck muscles, unclenched my jaw, and slowly opened my eyes. I decided that wallowing in self-pity did nothing for the delicate state of my mental health, though a walk could do my spirits a bit of good.

I wandered the corridors for some time before I found a staircase tucked away rather far from the dormitories. In fact, the only rooms nearby that I had noticed were old abandoned dressing rooms laden with cobwebs and dust. I followed the stairs up for several flights, wondering with increased anticipation, where they lead. At long last, I reached the end, which had what I could best describe as being a hatch of sorts. It took me several tries to open it, but I was immediately greeted with a rush of cool autumn air. With very little grace or decorum I managed to hoist myself through the hatch, finding myself on the roof of the opera house, surrounded by stars and moonlight, and a gentle breeze which did wonders to calm my anxiety.

I sat near the edge of the roof, though not close enough to be in any danger of falling. For the first time since I had stabbed my last living family member, I felt a bit of peace. Granted, not enough peace to ignore the fact that I was a murderer with blood and dirt still living under my fingernails, but at peace all the same. I did not pay much attention to how much time had passed – it felt like minutes and hours all at once. I noticed the east begin to become dimly lit as the sun began to peek over the horizon. I decided to return to the dormitories before the ballet rats awoke and wondered where the new peculiar chorus girl had wandered off to. I needed no more ghost stories following me around in this opera house.

As I lowered myself back down the hatch, I glanced around at my newfound sanctuary one last time and smiled, a true smile, as slight as it may have been. I disappeared down the stairs, completely oblivious to the pair of yellow glittering eyes that had watched me the entire time.

Returning to my bed, I was gifted with an hour, perhaps two of sleep before the girls awoke and caused a flurry of activity. I dreamed little, but the dreams I did have were haunted by shadows and the face of my uncle, bloodstained, eyes bulging, wheezing and gasping for air. In truth, my nightmares were far more distressing than the actual events. I had indeed stabbed the man, solidly in the chest. I recalled no eyes bulging, though the gurgle of blood was enough to haunt my dreams for a lifetime. I snapped my eyes open, not caring much for more unsettling sleep.

The following days and weeks became easier to manage once I found myself more accustomed to the rhythm of the opera house. Rehearsals, which I initially dreaded due to my inexperience, soon proved to be a distraction from the horrors that lurked in the back of my mind. I could not concentrate my past when I was busy concentrating on not being smacked by the cane from Madame Giry.

While the daytime brought me distractions, I found that the nights and evenings brought me a small scrap of peace. Initially, I had only spent my rooftop time gazing at the stars. Eventually, I began humming quietly to myself. Later as the weeks passed and I felt a bit more at ease, I began letting my voice rise in song, but oh what a sorrowful song it was. Although singing made me want to cry, it also set me free, a feeling that I had seldom experienced. And it was after my song, one night, that I had finally met the stranger cloaked in shadow who had been haunting me those long arduous weeks. I had not noticed him on my first rooftop visit, but as the days ticked by, I began to feel him – the way you feel monsters who lurk under your bed, or in the corners of your eyes. I knew he was there, or at least that something sinister was stalking me; however, though he clouded the rooftop with his dark presence, I did not find it all that threatening. In fact, perhaps he should be threatened by me, given my murderous history. Until he spoke to me that one night, I honestly assumed he was a ghost, perhaps the spirit of my dead uncle there to haunt me. I deserved whatever judgment he would pass, though he never posed to be a danger there on the rooftop, merely a silent observer.

I had finished my song that night, as was nearly ready to venture back to the dormitories. I felt exhausted from the long rehearsals and lack of peaceful sleep, for whenever I closed my eyes, my dead uncle was there to haunt me. However, he delayed me for a moment, remarking, "You have an adequate voice."

Despite my surprise at my ghost having a voice, I felt offended. I knew it was not comparable to La Carlotta's or any great diva, but his comment felt demeaning all the same. I spun to where I assumed the voice had originated and retorted, "If my voice is only adequate, I wonder why you bothered saying anything at all!"

"I did not mean to offend you, mademoiselle, in fact, you misunderstand my meaning," he commented, still not revealing himself from the shadows, "I intended to convey that you possess a wondrous instrument, but it is your technique, the playing of your instrument that is lacking."

I scoffed, "And what would you have me do, Mr. Ghost?"

"Erik," he replied.

"Mr. Erik."

"I would like to teach you. I am aware that you often venture to the rooftop in the evenings; perhaps you would like those evenings to be a bit more productive for your career."

I pondered his proposition for several moments. "Why do you want to help me? I know that you abducted me from my father's gravesite. Why?" I asked.

"Abducted is a rather harsh word, but you appeared to be ... struggling. I could only make an assumption based on your frantic state of suicidalness while covered in dirt and blood. However, I will not pry into your past, I only wanted to offer you a second chance at life."

I nodded, feeling a bit more at ease despite the absurdity of the situation. "If I agree, will you come out of the shadows and let me see you?"

From behind a statue, appeared a man. He was very tall and thin, clad in all black, accompanied by a black cloak and mask that covered most of his face. Everything about his appearance seemed elegant and perhaps even regal. The little of his face I could see revealed a chiseled jaw and high angular cheekbones. He also possessed full lips, that I did not allow my eyes to linger on for too long (obviously, for proprieties sake). His eyes were like pools of golden honey, and I found myself a bit lost in them, as I looked away, blushing a bit for staring at this masked phantom.

Remembering my manors, I stuck out my hand, saying, "I'm Christine Da- Gustafson," catching myself before I careless gave up my secret, "I think I should like a few lessons."

He nodded, gently taking my hand before abruptly releasing it. "I shall expect to see you tomorrow after your rehearsal," he remarked before vanishing into a cloud of smoke.

Perhaps I had just met a ghost after all.