Salut, good readers! I have returned once again, begging your indulgence to my humble writing. I have been in touch with the Monsieur O.G., who believes that this incident should be included, although it does not directly impact the life of our title character for some time. This is how M. O.G. recalls the event, and, to ensure that I keep my neck quite free from the obstruction of a Punjab lasso, this is how I record it. I must admit, I never realized that this undertaking would be quite so hazardous to my well-being. Alas, such is the risk one must run to record the captivating life of the Phantom of l'Opéra Populaire.
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Erik felt the need to do his regular rounds of l'Opéra; they had been neglected of late. In fact, he had been on his way there when he came across a wounded girl and her attacker. He sighed as he realized he had still not disposed of the body. It would have to be done. For now, his thoughts focused on l'Opéras operations. The manager was finally listening to him, as well he should. Things seemed to be flowing very nicely. The name of the Opera Ghost was still whispered, and the ballet rats tittered in nervous amusement when they told tales of him in the dark. Before long, they had all fallen asleep.
All were asleep except one. This little girl was still new to ballet troupe and often cried herself to sleep. She wished more than anything that her father would come and sweep her up in his arms, as he always had. But she knew it would not be so. Her father would never again sing with her, or play his violin while she played with her doll, or even say her name with laughter in his voice.
She clung to the one promise he had made her before he died. The promise of the Angel of Music he would send to her. The promise of her father returned to teach her to be a great musician as he had been. She curled up on her bed and hummed when the crying ceased this night. She hummed the tunes her father had taught her when they were traveling. She didn't know that another was listening to her song.
Her sound trailed off, but sleep would not come. Suddenly, she heard it. It was the sound of a soft deep voice. It was humming. For some reason, she knew it was only for her. She looked all around for the man who must be singing. When she found no one, an astonishing thought crossed her mind. Perhaps it was not a man; perhaps it was the Angel of Music her father had promised. With that thought, she smiled. "Thank you, angel," she whispered, then lay back down and went to sleep.
Erik did not know why he had done it. He had simply been on his way back to his lair when he felt the urge to check in on the ballet dormitories. He thought they would all be long ago asleep, so it surprised him to hear the uneven breathing of a crying girl. He had watched the little blonde girl's tears lessen, and listened as she hummed. It was folk tune of the north, he knew. She hummed for several minutes, but the look on her face was so forlorn that Erik could not resist helping her slip into the type of sleep that he had left Cecily in: a worriless, trouble-free sleep. He began to hum, and only when he had finished did he realize it was the song Cecily had played earlier.
It was her smile that would draw him back on nights to come. That smile was so innocent, so trusting. And she called him 'angel.' There was something that drew him to her, something that he would never identify.
He stayed no longer that night. Content that the girl was asleep, he continued deep into the catacombs, not thinking about her until his next trip into l'Opéra. For now, his mind rested with Cecily.