The clacking of the horse's shoes against the street slowed until they halted altogether. I clutched the letter and fixed my bonnet as the footman hurried to open my door. I climbed out, using his hand to get down safely, and looked around at my surroundings.

I'd never before stepped foot in the Rue Rivoli, but it was as fine as the stories made it out to be. I knew the address of the apartment I was heading to off by heart, but that didn't make actually finding it any easier.

The grandeur of the high buildings made me feel as small as I had when I'd stood at the bottom of the cliffs by the seasides of my childhood. Still, there was no time to waste staring at the apartments of the wealthy, for time was the one thing I was running out of rapidly.

I hurried along the street to the correct flat, stopping to ask for directions on a few occasions. Up and down the street I went, searching for and scanning every residence number I could find. When at last I managed to locate the right building, there were several flights of stairs to contend with, which were no mean feat for a panicking lady in a corset and travelling dress.

Red in the face, I rapped at a random door and begged for the apartment of the former Daroga of Mazenderan. The servant who came to my aid hung back slightly, an element of fear crossing his eyes. Only when I expressed the urgency of the situation did he point across the hall and down a little way to another door, then shut his own in my face.

I ran across the corridor to that door and hammered upon it with my parasol.

"Daroga!" I cried, trying the handle. "Daroga, open this door! In the name of Raoul de Changy, open it!"

The lock clicked and the door slid open by a few inches to reveal a stout, middle-aged man in an astrakhan cap. I stared back, my hands falling to my sides.

"I'm sorry. I'm Christine Daae," I said, trying to force some composure back into my voice. The man nodded and stepped aside, opening the door wide for me. "Thank you."

I stepped inside, met with the warmth of a fire in a grate by the wall, and untied my bonnet. The quiet servant took my cloak from my shoulders and my bonnet, moving to take them through to the little cloakroom just off to the left. It was a cosy little apartment. From where I was standing, I could see through into the next room beneath a little archway, where a table and two chairs stood before a window.

The servant returned and gestured towards that next room. I followed where he led, stepping into the sunlight. He turned again towards a door in the far wall, his footsteps deadened against the floorboards, much like a phantom in his own right.

"Is he...?" I could hardly bear to finish, but gestured to the closed door. The servant nodded and knocked quietly.

The shuffling of feet from the other side only made my heart beat faster than it already was. I clenched my hands in a fit of nerves, hearing the crinkle of paper too late; the letter was well and truly ruined by my fidgeting by now.

The door creaked open and a pair of sparkling green eyes met mine from the shadows of the darkened room; the curtains had been drawn, keeping what looked like a bedroom in eternal night but for the rays that brushed over the floorboards beneath the window.

"Wait here," a voice said. "He is not wearing his mask."

I waited with the servant, who I could only assume was Darius, and tried to enquire after his wellbeing. Darius, however, lifted his finger to his lips and didn't speak a word of a reply.

The other man slipped out of the room at last, shutting the door behind him quietly.

"Madame de Changy," he whispered. I offered my hand and let him kiss it quickly, before he turned to the servant and dismissed him in that same whisper. "I'm afraid we must be very quiet. Darius has not spoken for almost ten days now in fear of disturbing him."

"Tell me, is he alright?" I stressed, barely managing to keep my voice to the lows he asked. "The letter you wrote, I... I came as soon as I could."

He nodded and stepped away from the door. "He knows you are here, Madame, I have just told him so. Darius and I have been doing as much as we can to help him. Some of my neighbours are convinced a curse has fallen over this house and have either moved away or keep their distance from here. He is quite unwell. You must try not to be alarmed."

"But will he live?" I pestered, aching to open the door and enter the dark room.

The Daroga hesitated. Then, as gently as a fawn, he said, "I think, Madame, it would be wise for you to say your goodbyes."

With that, he opened the door for me, bowed, and left me to enter by myself. I drew a deep breath, fighting tears and plucking up my courage.

"Erik?" I whispered, stepping over the threshold and closing the door behind me with a soft thud and click. There came no reply, just the swishing of curtains by the open window and the occasional, whispy breaths from the bed by the far wall. When my eyes finally adjusted to the dimness of the room, I made out the shape of a figure lying in the bed, their chest rising and falling occasionally.

I crossed the room, feeling the soft rugs beneath my feet, and found the edge of the bed. His breathing came in short spurts, dragged from deep in his throat. My eyes were adjusting every second, and now I saw the parting between his thin lips, the only part his mask left bare, from where he was heaving each breath.

"Oh, Erik..."

I sat on the edge of the bed and lifted his thin, bony hand onto my leg, stroking the back of it for my comfort as much as his. His head turned on the pillow, but I didn't see the amber that would indicate he was looking at me.

He drew a deep breath. "Christine..." It broke my heart to hear my name shatter in his throat.

"Shhh." I reached to stroke his thin, grey hair and he sighed. "I'm here, Erik."

"Here..." he mumbled. "You came... came to see your Angel?"

"Yes."

"You'll be late... for re..." He coughed slightly and sank back into the pillow. "Late for rehearsal..."

I worried at my lip and stroked his hand with my thumb again, as I did when Christopher or Philippe awoke from a nightmare and needed to be soothed back to sleep. "Rehearsal?"

"Faust..." he mumbled again, swallowing and trying to damp his throat. "Marguerite..."

Was this what Daroga meant in the letter he said Erik was dying? I swallowed a forming lump in my throat and held back my tears. Erik did not need my pity, or my sorrow.

"I have rehearsed today," I said, hoping that playing his game of make believe would make him feel better. "I sang the Jewel Song."

"Wonderful..." he murmured. "We will... we will astonish Paris..."

"And they will all hear your creation," I whispered, bringing his hand to my throat.

But instead of smiling or asking me to sing as I'd imagined, Erik gave a cry of horror and snatched his hand back, his eyes opened wide all of a sudden and staring at me, glowing fires which could only be seen in the darkness of this room.

"No!" he yelped, turning away in the bed, an action so violent he began to splutter and choke. I froze in horror as he kicked against the bedsheets. "No! Leave me be!"

"Erik!"

"I beseech you, Your Highness! I will murder no more, not for you, nor for any of your court!" He coughed again, a sound that reminded me of a carpenter sanding down wood, whom I'd watched at work in my younger years.

"Erik," I said again, catching his shoulder and turning him back to me. "Are you alright?"

His eyes found mine, knocking more breath from my body than if he'd smacked me in the stomach.

"Don't make me go back, Nadir..." he whispered, clutching my hand.

"You're not going back to Persia," I whispered, stroking his hair again and finally understanding what he was saying. "Look around, Erik. You're safe. I'm here."

"Christine..." he said, drawing his breaths quicker now. "You'll be... late for rehearsal..."

I didn't say anything to that. Was this how the Phantom of the Opera would go? He'd just slip away in a fit of madness? After surviving what he had, there was no magnificent death scene, no epic battle? How had a man of so many things come to such a pitiful and quiet end?

It was only then that I remembered the gift I'd brought him.

"Erik," I whispered, reaching into the bag of provisions I'd carried with me and fishing something from the depths. "Look at this."

The picture was by no means easy to see in the darkness, but I had faith that Erik's sight, trained by the hardship of the years, would not fail him.

He took the frame in shaking, gaunt hands and studied it quietly. I saw how his eyes locked first upon Christopher, the beaming child taking over the photograph with delight and childishness, and then Philippe, who sat with a smaller, politer smile, elegantly poised. A tear rolled down his cheek as I pointed out which twin was which.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, his voice broken within his throat. He clutched the picture to his chest, letting more tears flow. "Oh, my good, beautiful Christine. They are perfect. Perfect Angels!"

Erik coughed again. I edged up on the bed until I sat back against the headboard and lifted his head into my lap. He gave a long breath, relaxing as my fingers combed through his hair.

"My Christine," he whispered, stroking the frame with all the tenderness of a father holding his newborn, as if he were scared to touch the faces of my children. "Raoul... Raoul is by far the... the luckiest man... on earth..."

We sat like that for some time, me humming various ballads and soft tunes as he slipped in and out of consciousness, in and out of deliriousness. Occasionally he'd remember where he was and thank me for being with him, but more often than not, he'd have fallen back into the past and I could only wait for him to catch up again.

"More vibrato," he whispered as I hummed my way through The Flower Duet from a recently-debuted opera, Lakmé. Though it called for some quick and high parts, I did my best to keep it down, allowing myself to sing some of the quieter parts, which Erik seemed to relish in.

"Brava, Marie," he whispered, and I was made to remember that I was not the only prima donna. Of course, he had probably been at the Opéra Comique for the premiere of Lakmé and had no doubt quietly congratulated the cast from his seat. He was, I realised, reliving various memories. "Bravissima, Delibes..."

The song came to an end and Erik wriggled like a child until I began another. I sang for what seemed like hours until the Daroga entered quietly and asked me to keep my voice down for Erik's health.

He'd promptly scurried from the room at his patient's... loud objection.

"Christine," Erik whispered, "Christine, open... open the curtains..."

I froze for a moment, glancing at them. "Are you sure? Daroga said-"

"Ignore the Daroga. I care not a whit... for his foolish 'treatments'. Please, Christine. I wish to see the daylight."

My heart tugged on its strings at that and I slipped his head from my lap to stand, resting him back into a comfortable position and tiptoeing across to the window. One bit at a time, I drew back the curtains, letting the light seep into the room like the dawn swept over the earth. Erik sat, watching as the sunlight lit his little room, watching me as I turned back to him.

He smiled. "Ah, Christine..."

I crept back and climbed back onto the bed, letting him rest his head on my shoulder.

"Thank you, my Angel," he whispered. "I've missed... the daylight."

"You'll be alright, Erik," I replied, pressing a kiss to his head, at which he froze against me. "You'll be well in no time. I'm here."

"Yes, Christine... forbid me to die..." He fell a little heavier against me and I caught my lip between my teeth to stop a cry, though tears crept out down my cheeks all the same. "Oh, Christine... you sang so beautifully tonight... the Angels wept..."

I cradled his head and upper back, moving so I was no longer on the bed and could lay him back down, though I drew a chair up and sat holding his hand.

"Your soul is a beautiful thing," I whispered.

"Late... for rehearsal..." he said again, his head beginning to roll to one side. "But... but you will come back, won't you? Yes, yes you will return... return to your Angel for him to congratulate you..."

He drew a long breath and let it go. A few more tears rolled down my cheek when he clutched my hand.

"Such a wonderful voice... and someday, I shall hear you sing just for me... no lies, no mirrors... and we shall be happy. Erik shall be happy at last... A living bride... living... living bride... to take for walks on... Sunday afternoons like... like any other man..."

I could bear it no longer. He was fading like the sunlight faded in a winter evening, and I was simply sitting there, waiting for him to go out like a light.

I reached for his mask, slipping my fingers beneath it and starting to lift. Erik clutched my other hand tighter.

"You are in no danger... so long... as you do not touch the mask."

"Erik, let me-"

"No... no stop."

"But I could look at your face-"

"No, I ask you please..." His eyes opened once more and found mine. "Stop."

But I couldn't. I was running out of time, Erik's time. I had maybe just a few minutes left to show him a slice of care the world had to offer, to show him the care I had to offer.

I lifted his mask off, and when he tried to cower away, I caught his chin and drew him back to me. An element of fear settled on my heart - how could it not? - but I refused to show any of it. He was a sight worse than death, even more so at his age than before.

Tired shadows had worn away at the thin skin beneath his eyes, which had sagged further than I'd thought possible, emphasising the sharp bones that carved out his face. His eyes, which seemed to have sunk deeper into his skull than before, gazed back at me, fearful, hopeful, full of love and admiration. The bones on his jaw stuck out much more, as did his ribs beneath his nightgown and his forehead. His hair, once dark and thick, was thin and a sickly grey now. I'd have sworn he'd aged fifteen years instead of five if I didn't know any better.

This poor creature, who'd been deprived of love from day one and who'd grown to hate the world which first hated him. He'd reached for the heights of beauty in desperation, only to wonder why he fell each time, like an icharus desperate for the heat of the sun. He lay there against the pillow before me now, a pitiful sight for anyone to behold. My heart tugged on its strings for him, the man I'd loved, then hated, and had now come to forgive.

I stooped over him and Erik groaned softly as my lips reached down to meet his. He froze beneath me, rigid as I kissed him. It was wrong, I knew. The villian should never be kissed by the princess. No fairytale my father ever told me ended like this. I had married my Prince Charming and given him two fine heirs. Yet here I was kissing the villain, the man we'd fought so hard to run from, in a bid to make him happy on his death bed.

I pulled away after a few moments and stroked his horrible face, hating how my fingers ran over the bumps and crevasses nature had struck him with.

"Are you alright?" I whispered. He managed to open his eyes, and when they met mine again, he smiled and reached up to wipe away the tears I didn't realise I was crying.

"My letter," he croaked, his voice barely audible in the depths of his throat. "My last letter... is on the dresser."

I made to stand back up to fetch it, but Erik didn't let my hand go. I nodded and sat back down.

"Thank you... my Angel," he whispered, his eyes fluttering to a close. "Thank you... I have tasted all the happiness in the world... thanks to you... ah, my Christine..."

I nodded, battling sobs before he could distress over me. Erik sighed once more, never to inhale again.

It was done. His suffering was finished at long, long last, after fifty-five years.

The curtains fluttered in the breeze, the sunlight streaming over his face. I squeezed his limp hand again, finally allowing myself to cry into his shoulder and replace his mask. In the street below, the sound of a violin drifted through the open window.