A/N: FIRST OF ALL I JUST WANT TO SAY HOW THANKFUL AND SHOCKED I AM AT ALL THE POSITIVE FEEDBACK? I'm just so thankful. 3 I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter One-Darkness

Three Years Later

Rain. It had fallen for the past three days without break-and it continued to fall. The blonde stared at the rain from her window-attempting to count the droplets that fell from the sky to the ground below.

"One, two," Little Giry began, following the droplets with a slender finger, "Three, fo-" A loud coughing from the other room interrupted her counting, causing her to lose focus. It was Mother. Mother had been ill for months now-she had only become progressively worse as the summer months faded away and the fall and winter months had come. Her cough had turned from a little cold to a sickness that had left her practically bedridden. Meg had assumed responsibility in the small Giry household. She cooked the meals, paid the dues, and worked. The girl-once an innocent little dancer-had been hardened by the harsh conditions of her life.

But yet the dancer had never lost her soft expression-her eyes still seemed to contain the sweetest glow to them and she always wore a smile. She still remained youthful-beautiful-and she tried to remain content. She tried to think of happiness when she heard her mother cry out in pain. She swallowed tears and put on a smile for guests who visited. She told her mother sweet nothings as she watched the life slowly fade away from her eyes.

"MEG!" the loud, hoarse yell caused Meg's thoughts to shatter and instinctively run to her mother's room, ready to get her what she wished. "MEG!" The girl ran to her bedside and grabbed her mother's hand, pressing it against her face-how cold it was!

"I'm right here, Mama," she replied in a soft whisper. "Are you alright?" Her mother turned her head to face her-she looked so different, yet the same. Her face still held the strong bone structure it always had and her sharp features- something that her daughter had never inherited. But her face was pallid and her dark eyes seemed sunken in-she seemed defeated.

"I'm going to die, Meg," was her reply. Meg shook her head, blonde curls bouncing up and down as she did so.

"Don't say that, Mama! You'r-"

"I am." Meg remained silent this time. "When I go, you must tell him that I am gone."

"Tell who, Mama?"

"Erik." The blonde did not reply immediately-Erik. The man that she had given his mask to so long ago-on that fateful night. "I told you everything. I was his only friend... You must tell him that I am gone."

"Oh, but Mama," she whispered. "Ma-"

"Meg. You must tell him."

"Of course, Mama." It pained Little Meg to hear her mother speak of death. To speak of the inevitable truth that had to be faced. And as much as Meg pretended that Mother would get well, she knew that her mother would not. "Anything for you." She placed her hand against her mother's cheek and began to stroke it softly. She could feel tears roll down those pallid cheeks, she could hear the soft gasps that were made. Little Meg wished she could shout and sob-but she only stood, silently. She feared that if she screamed, it would startle Mother. "M...Mama, I love you...I love you so much."

There was no reply.

"M...Mama?" she asked in a soft voice. "M..." Her voice trailed off as her eyes traveled to her mother's face-it held a serene, painless expression. "Mama...did you fall asleep?" She shook her gently. The woman did not stir. "Please wake up...please..." But her pleas were left unanswered. Meg's raven eyes traveled from her mother to the ceiling. For a moment, she bit on her lip to keep herself from crying.

And then, she fell to the floor and began to sob. And there she stayed, completely alone in the world, as the rain kept falling with no sign of stopping.

It was her turn to wear the black dress now. To pull her thick, curly hair into a complicated twist. To look down as she walked. To refuse visitors.

It was her turn to mourn.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror silently. The dress resembled the one her mother had worn for all those years-refusing to wear colorful dresses even after the mourning period was over. Yet, it was not the dress her mother had. It was a different dress-altered to fit her small frame and made in the current fashion. No, it was not her mother's dress-she was not her mother.

How she had admired the elder Giry! She had watched with large eyes as her mother had taught the corps, as her mother had juggled so effortlessly with the responsibilities she had. How Meg wanted to be like her. Beautiful, graceful, cold-but good-hearted.

The girl took a breath before staring at herself in the mirror once more. She was changed-the dark circles underneath her eyes had become noticeable, her skin had become pale, and her eyes had lost the glow they once had. She wondered if Erik would recognize her-no, of course he would not. She had only given him his mask. Had only momentarily brushed her warm fingers against his pallid, cold hand. Had only stared into his eyes-a pallid blue-and seen the sorrow that he held.

No, of course he wouldn't remember her.

She looked away from the mirror as she reached for her gloves-black lace. As she put them on, slowly placing her fingers inside of the glove, a comb caught her eye. It was golden-with emeralds embellishing it. It had been her mother's-her father had given it to her as a present. Her father. Monsieur Jules Giry-who was dead. Who lay beside her mother. Finally, the two-who had been so in love-were together.

She stuck the comb in her thick bun. She stood up straight-something her mother had always told her to do-and wore a stoic expression on her face. There was no elder Giry now-there was only Meg Giry. And Meg Giry was no longer a terrified child who told stories.

She was a woman.

She walked down the cold streets of Paris, staring straight ahead. She ignored the stares of men and the small talk from women. She only continued to walk-that was what Mother had always done.

She continued to walk. Past the florists who offered her violets-her favorite flowers-and peddlers who offered her all kinds of pretty 'necessities'. She walked past the bakery where she and Christine had laughed and shared food so very long ago-now Christine had left Paris and Little Meg had been left alone. She walked past every familiar building and person until she reached the entrance of his lair-

She stood for a moment, scared. She had not even seen 'The Monsieur Phantom' in years-for all she knew, he could be dead. He could have left, he cou-she was terrified to go in there. Her cold demeanor that she had worn on the streets melted away and a terrified child stood in its place. She wanted to go back home-to cry into her pillows and hold the little kitten she owned until she fell asleep. But she could not! She had promised Mother that she would find Erik-and tell him that her mother had died-he had to know.

And so she entered the lair and traveled to the exact place she had come to three years ago- to the exact place where she had found his mask. To the exact p-

"Why are you here?" whispered a harsh, low voice. The dancer's eyes became wide and she slowly stepped back, startled by the voice.

"Monsieur Erik, is that y..you?" she whispered back. There was no answer but she could hear the footsteps approach-slowly coming closer-until she saw a man walking towards her. It was Erik-Erik without his mask. Erik dressed in no manner to receive any guest-much less a young lady. But it was Erik. "B..Bonjour." He only walked closer to her, studying her face.

"Who are you?!" he demanded.

"M..Meg Giry...the girl..w..who gave you your mask." His mouth slightly opened and he looked into her eyes-her large, coal colored eyes. Her mother's eyes.

"Ah, you. I remember you...I barely recognized you-the outfit does not suit you."

"It's the only one I have." She swallowed. "I'm in mourning."

"Is your husband dead?"

"My mother." His expression turned to one of shock, anger, and pain. He turned his head away from her. Little Meg slowly-silently-walked towards him, her face holding an expression of concern. Soft gasps escaped from his mouth and the dancer could see that he shook. "Monsi...are you alright?"

"Leave," he whispered. "Leave and never return."

"M...Monsieur-M...Mother ma-"

"LEAVE!" The girl froze in her place. "She is dead-the only one that truly cared for me..." It became silent and Little Giry realized that Erik-the opera ghost that had terrified her for years-was crying.

"M..M.." He turned to face her with large eyes-those eyes that held sorrow and pain. Those eyes that told Little Giry that he was no monster-but a man. She stood there-and then ran to him, wrapping her tiny arms around him. And he fell, sobbing and shaking. He was showing weakness-no longer was he the opera ghost, but he was a mere man who was in pain. For the only woman who had shown him any love was dead.

"D..d..don't leave," he mumbled, still shaking in her arms. Meg only stared ahead, eyes wide with silent sorrow. She would not leave him. She could not leave him. For she was just as alone as he was in this world.

"I won't," she whispered. She would take her mother's place-no, she was not her mother. She could never be her mother. But she could be there for Erik-she could keep him company and talk to him-for he needed her.

"I'll stay."