Nothing but prose, friends. I apologize for the length - be sure to leave comments on what you think! Many thanks... Katie :)

He did not appear, as he had so often done. I bit back tears. There was no way he could not be there. My fingers searched everywhere around my mirror for a lever, button, or some indicator of a hidden doorway or passage. I found nothing. Rising from my seat, I searched about the room.

I decided to push my mirror and vanity from their position, and was greeted with a cloud of dust. Coughing, I rubbed my eyes to see a trap door of sorts. Not hesitating, I lifted it up and saw a staircase that lowered into darkness.

Rising quickly to grab an oil lantern and a match, I carefully descended into darkness. I followed the passage as it went along, descending several more flights of stairs in the process. I soon heard the sound of a flowing water, and found myself across the lake from my angel's home. Making my way hesitantly, after a while I reached the chamber itself and entered, following a path from memory into the music room. I searched everywhere, found him absent—surely he should be here, playing his music! A long moment passed by as I searched room after room until I noticed that there was a thin, hardly noticeable layer of dust covering the keys of the piano.

My eyes widened in comprehension. He's not here, I thought. There is no way he would resist the piano with his heart so battered as it was. Tears of panic formed in my eyes as I searched around desperately, only to sit down upon his piano bench and stare into the grayness. Slowly, as my eyes adjusted to their normal state, after being blurred from tears, I noticed another crucial detail.

Gazing upon the dirt and dust covered ground, I saw a couple sets of footsteps. Footsteps! True, they could have belonged to anyone in the mob, but they just didn't seem to be. They were too perfect—my angel always walked with perfect gait—and too close to the piano. Who from the mob would care about my angel's piano?

Seizing this ray of sunshine, this burst of sudden hope, I eagerly followed the footsteps, and rushed down an unknown passage into a new direction. There were undoubtedly more chambers he could hide in—where was he?!

I had given up on titles for the time being—they were too frustrating, I would just wait until my opera was finished to worry about such things.

Slouching for a moment, deep in thought, my concentration wavered. I thought of Christine. Placing my head in my hands, I let myself have a couple of moments to wallow in self pity. When I lifted my head to continue my work, I felt better. Like a child who had it's feelings hurt, cried a bit, and then felt better afterward.

Placing my hand upon the keys of my organ, I began to play. This mode of therapy was starting to lose its effectiveness, I thought, as I poured myself into the music. I didn't bother to wipe away my tears—I hoped that their freshness would give me a stronger passion.

All of a sudden, I saw a light. It was distant, but not too terribly far. Snatching up my last bit of hope, I started to run, faster, faster, and began to call out, "Angel! My Angel!"

When I reached the end of the tunnel, and I saw the source of the light, my heart dropped to my stomach. I saw another house—a large chamber—smaller in size than the previous one. Once I realized that there was a light on in a window, my jaw fell. Could he be here? Then, my ears were lightly graced with music, such riveting music! It was familiar, it was.

With that instantaneous awareness, I ran up the path to the house calling out once more to an angel who I prayed would still want to save me.

Pounding unmercifully upon the old organ's keys, I was determined to relieve myself of all my burdens. I fed my soul a vigor that was sprung out of painful passion, not joyous passion.

The last several notes of what I had written drifted ominously into the quiet, as I ended my piece. Finally!

I turned, slowly, my mouth pressed into a firm line. Good work, Erik, I thought. Abruptly, though, something caught my eye. Glancing up, my heart stopped beating for the shortest of moments. Could my eyes deceive me? What foul, cruel joke is this? Does my mind mock me, and desecrate her memory with such hurtful images?

Frowning, I spoke, "I know it's not really you," and, expecting it to fade into nothingness, my eyes widened as the figure before me spoke, coming closer.

"My angel, oh, my angel," she lamented, "Do you not know it is me?"

My lip quivered and I trembled, "Convince me fully that you are, indeed, real, and not just another figment of my tortured mind!"

My words stung this apparition as her eyes lowered in hurt. She came closer, and laid her hand upon mine.

I recoiled, and stroked my hand. Could this be? Was that human flesh I had felt? I rose, standing several inches over her. She certainly looked like Christine. I stole fleeting glances at my artworks, and concluded that she was, indeed, the most accurate portrayal of Christine I had seen since she left.

Could she be real?

Her brown eyes studied my golden ones, and she took my hand in hers again. Raising them, she pressed them against her heart.

"See?" she whispered, "I'm real."

My mouth opened in disbelief as I struggled to find words. How can this be?!

"Christine?" I whispered in awe.

"Yes," she murmured back, "It is me."

Clearing my head, I shook it, and retreated a step back from her. My stare grew cold and stern.

"What do you want with me? Have you come to torture me more? And where is that de Chagny boy? Or did you leave him, too?"

She bit her lip as she fought back tears. I had hurt her feelings. Her feelings?! I thought to myself, What about mine? They were completely obliterated, thanks to this she-demon!

"Angel—" she started, her voice breaking, but I interrupted her.

"Please," I said forcefully, "I am Erik. Your angel is dead."

Her eyes widened. "Erik," she said dejectedly, "I have come to see you."

Eyes ablaze, I inquired, my voice growing in volume "Is that all you've come to do? Will you leave me after a week, a night, or even an hour? No matter what, you will leave. Why have you come, Christine? What more do you want with me?!"

I turned violently, slammed my fist upon the organ, and stood observing the dent I had placed in it, shuddering.

Bright lights infiltrated my vision as my anger sizzled and simmered. I suddenly felt a hand upon my shoulder. I stiffened and turned, still battling with my emotions.

"Erik," she said quietly, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Not trusting myself, I made no response.

She sighed, and suddenly I felt her arms around my waist. "Erik," she said, her voice pleading, "Please forgive me. I didn't want to hurt you, but I did. And…I hurt myself."

What? What does she mean? I faced her, and held her at arm's length. She gazed at me with a tearful look.

My voice and expression softened, "My dear Christine, what do you mean?"

Could she have suffered as well? Was it possible?

"From the moment I walked away from you, three weeks ago, I have known nothing but sadness. My heart longs for you, but my mind resists you—Raoul is angry with me. He sees my excruciating desire, and wishes to change my mind."

I shook my head, calmly saying, "He cannot."

Christine assured, "He did not."

The faintest of smiles teased at my mouth.

She lowered her voice a touch, saying, "And I cannot change my mind."

I raised an eyebrow, "No? Why ever not?"

Christine answered, "Raoul does not understand why you captivate my thinking, and steal my very soul. I did not realize or comprehend why until most recently. But, after weeks of contemplating, I do know why."

Confusion knit in my brow, I inquired, "Why?"

Blushing a faint pink, she said, "Because… My Erik, you have shown me what true beauty is."

For a moment, I lost sense of how to breath. What did she say? Was she implying I was not horrid and ugly? Was I superior to her young de Chagny?

I was breathless. I desired to know more! But, suddenly, panic and a hint of rage afflicted me. Roughly, I asked, "And what of the boy? What of your Raoul? Do you not want him over me?"

A miniscule flame of irritation arose in Christine's eyes. "Did I not just make my sentiments clear? Raoul is handsome, yes, and is well-to-do in society, yes—but he does not know me like you do, he does not value and appreciate who I am like you do. You know, you understand. You inspired my very spirit!"

Her voice rose in loudness, full of emotion, and she took a step away from me, her eyes filling with tears, "Have I hurt you too much, Erik? Can you not see how much I care for you?" she dropped upon her knees before me, "Will you not forgive me?"

Tears began to course in small rivulets down her face as she said, "Raoul thinks I am the same young girl that he met at the seashore. He fails to realize that I'm not his Little Lotte anymore."

The small bits of anger and fear that had come over me again instantly disappeared. I nodded, and helped her to her feet. She wiped away tears with the sleeve of her dress. Stopping her hand, I held her head in my hands. Using my thumb, I gently wiped away her tears. She looked at me with surprise and just a hint of hope.

Slowly, I embraced her, and held her close. "And who are you now, my love?"

Tightening her hold around me, she lifted her head and offered a wishful smile, "I'm yours."

My stomach felt as if it were doing acrobatics. I was lost for words. Finally? At last? She is mine!

A couple tendrils of her hair had fallen from their pins. Tenderly placing them behind her ear, I was overcome with so many emotions, some that I felt I did not even know the name of!

She smiled at me, and I could not help but grin, grin like a lovesick fool! How I had waited for this moment!

"Oh, Christine," I said, expressing my newfound joy, "My Christine… I love you so!"

And my lips met hers.