My dear Erik,

I know it is sad and even rather disturbing that even though you're gone I still feel this compulsion to tell you about my day! Is writing letters to the dead a sign of mental imbalance, do you think? For that matter though, you may very well be the last person I should be asking about mental imbalances! Oh, my poor Erik – how things might have been different for you, had you been treated differently! You might have been the sanest and wisest of men!

Or is it simply that old habits are difficult to break? It is ironic that when I used to spend my time with you, I used to write letters to Raoul (that he never received). Now that I am married to him, I end up writing letters to you (that you likewise will never receive).

We arrived in my hometown today, and you would be amazed at how many people remembered "Little Stina," as I was called here. Christine was only my French name—here, I was Stina Daaé, the violinist's daughter. It was so nice to hear my old name again today, and my own language! Raoul was quite lost, I'm afraid. The poor dear, how confused he looked when I introduced him to all of my father's old friends—and he couldn't understand a word of the introduction! I was tempted to laugh, but it would have hurt his feelings. I fear that he saw my amusement anyway; he became rather sulky for the rest of the day.

We have bought a palatial house on the outskirts of my old village. I had wanted to move closer to Gothenburg, where I would have been able to continue my musical education, but Raoul insisted that we stay here in my old village near Upsala. I tried to explain that I didn't know many people here; Papa and I left for the city while I was still young. But Raoul insists that a small village is what we want, because no one will be able to find us.

Personally, I don't think we'll be that hard to find in a house this large, but I held my tongue. I didn't want to get involved in an argument so soon before we marry. I do wish that I could go on studying music and singing, though; it doesn't look as if I shall have that chance if we remain here.

We arranged for my old priest to marry us next week. But now, hear the best part! When he heard about who I had been in Paris, Father Fisk now wants me to come and sing in church on Sundays! Not even Raoul could object to that, I'm sure! I am so excited—and now I really do wish you could come and hear me. I know my voice is rusty from being out of practice, and I know you would be cross with me if you heard me now. I shall have to start practicing; he wants me to begin the Sunday after our wedding. I cannot wait!

I just re-read that last paragraph, Erik, and it sounds as if I'm more excited to be singing again than I am about my own wedding. I assure you, I'm quite excited about both. I am! Honestly!

I'm just not that eager to live in Upsala again.

I still miss you more than I can say. I could never wish for a better companion than you were. Raoul loves me, but he has no great love for music. My father, God rest his soul, loved music as much as you do, but was never much for reading. Mama Valérius loves reading, but (God bless her) lacks the intelligence to make good, sparkling conversation. You, on the other hand, satisfied my need for companionship on nearly every level. Your death has left a giant hole in my heart that nothing else seems to fill, no matter how hard I try.

My dearest Erik, why did you not keep your promise to me? I read your death-notice in l'Epoche, but when I went back to your house I found only the Persian, who informed me he had already taken care of your body. I would have been honored to do that for you, Erik—why didn't you make him wait for me?

Listen to my foolishness, asking a dead man why he didn't make the living do one thing or another! Still, it was a disappointment. I do appreciate that he gave me back your ring to keep, though. It gives me something tangible to remember you by, for when my voice fades into insignificance.

Speaking of which, I had better get practicing if I'm to sing in public in two weeks! I shall simply pretend that you're here with me, teaching me, and I should do fine.

I wish you really were here with me, my dear.

Ever your loving

Christine

Christine folded this letter up with the other, and locked them into her jewelry box. She had no idea why she felt like writing to Erik every so often, but as long as Raoul never found out about it, it should be fine. Erik had been a huge part of her life after all, and his passing had left her feeling empty. It's just until I get through my grief, she told herself. Raoul wouldn't understand about my grief, so I simply won't burden him with it. I'll pour my feelings out on paper, where they'll harm no one, and if the dead really do haunt the living sometimes, then Erik will know I'm thinking of him.