From the perspective of the former Daroga of Persia, 17th June, 1901.
"You say these are the letters from the Ghost to Christine Daae?"
"Every one of them, Monsieur. Is this all you need from an old man?"
The reporter nods and stands, reaching to shake my hand. "An honour, Monsieur," he says. "I assure you they will be safe with me."
I nod, turning away to stare out of the window and the reporter shows himself out; Darius died three years ago and had worked faithfully to his dying breath.
I watch as that reporter gets into his cab in the street below. For a moment, he glances back up at the apartment and our eyes meet. And then he is gone, along with Erik and Christine's letters, and various other artefacts from the monster's life.
Despite myself, I can't help but smile. It has been fifteen years since Erik died, yet I still hear his voice reprimanding me for giving away his prized possessions to a random reporter. And yet, I wouldn't have cared a dot if he had been alive to strangle me to my grave. I knew reporters enough to know that my Erik would never truly die. He will live on in the stories I'd relayed to that fellow, I know it. I am unsure how I know it, but I simply do.
I hadn't heard anything from Christine de Changy until a few weeks ago, when she'd returned Erik's final letter by post, with nothing else in the envelope and no return address. Her son, Christopher de Changy, had recently debuted his first work on Garnier's stage, met with an eager excitement for more of this young composer's intense, dark work; the poor man had never been the same since the death of his brother, Philippe de Changy, who was struck down by a carriage late one night as he travelled home from his office, where he worked as a lawyer. Thus, Christopher's work was always deeply moving and seemingly pulled from the dark instruments of Hell itself.
Raoul de Changy had all but disappeared from history, taking his wife with him, no doubt retreating into a burrow of grief somewhere up north, as far away from Paris as they could get. He'd discovered Christine's correspondence the day Erik died. She'd returned home that evening to find her husband waiting for her at the gate to the House with a look of thunder spread over his face; he'd found every one of her letters (thanks to her son) and had demanded an explanation, only cooling off, my driver said, when she burst into tears in his arms and relayed the terrible afternoon's events.
Erik's funeral had been a simple affair, with just Christine and I in attendance to bury the creature. I never again saw her in the flesh once she left that day, and made no attempt to seek her out.
It was a tragic tale from birth to death, faith lost from the moment Erik's mother had seen her child. And yet, even as an old, old man, I have hope. I sit back in my chair and think about that reporter, trusting that Erik will never be forgotten but remembered as a man who was damned from the start.
If not that, he will make quite the villain! One must be content with what one can receive these days.
I chuckle and return to reading my copy of this morning's newspaper. Quite the villain indeed.
Ah, Erik. If only you could have told him your story yourself. No doubt we will meet again. I look forward to it, my dear friend. I look forward to it indeed.
The End.