The wind was freezing, and Christine shivered insanely as she stared at the rich, dark earth. The priest's words were lost in the wind, carried away from her, but she knew she wouldn't have listened anyway. She felt as if she had lost all ability to function. She didn't hear or see or feel anything. Everything and everyone was a giant blur, and she was whirling around, almost out of control, lost without her anchor.

Raoul's arm came around her shoulders, and he pulled her close for comfort and for warmth. The graveyard looked gloomy, and the weather seemed to echo its sentiment. His heart beat firmly and solidly against her, and she looked down.

She had never seen earth so dark. It was pure, clean earth, and her father was beneath it. He was in a box, and it was going to be beneath the earth. It seemed so cruel.

A few of the words of the priest drifted to her. "Those who trust in Him shall understand truth, and the faithful shall abide with Him in love…"

It was the bare minimum of a graveside service. She didn't want a viewing or a funeral or anything similar. The last thing she needed was a reminder of just how alone she was now. To her dull surprise, a few people had shown up for the service. The first and second violinists as well as the conductor of the orchestra in which Gustave had played were standing on the opposite side of the gravesite, dressed darkly and with heads bowed in respect. She had never met them before, and they had offered murmured condolences and their sympathy to her as they gathered.

Raoul had been the one pulling her through. When she had at last learned of Gustave's passing, she had felt a desire to crawl away into a dark hole and never emerge. She tried that—spent an entire day in her bed, staring blankly at the wall—but Raoul was stern and gentle. He picked up the pieces, just as he had always done, and he had somehow kindly forced her to wake up, get out of bed, shower, and eat. He had sorted through the minimum life insurance that Gustave had had, and he had arranged nearly everything for her.

The entire thing had run her into the ground. On top of the emotional devastation, she was also faced with the several thousand dollars required for the things like the casket, the tombstone, the mortician service, the gravesite…The insurance hardly made a dent in the mounting costs, and she was still facing some bills that the hospital had sent to her. She felt empty, hollow, and she rubbed at her eyes. She hadn't cried all day, and she wondered if something was wrong with her. She somehow felt evil for not crying at her father's graveside service. What was wrong with her?

Still, the only moisture in her eyes was a result of the cold wind, and she was shivering so much that Raoul pulled off his heavy overcoat and wrapped it around her tightly. There were thick gray clouds in the sky, looming and threatening, waiting for the right moment to open up and rain. She thought how perfectly fitting the weather was for a funeral. It was like something out of a movie, really.

Christine put a hand to her throat, reaching for her necklace before remembering that it was clasped in her father's cold, lifeless hands. She had grown nearly hysterical when insisting that her father be buried with it. Raoul had managed to smooth things over, and so now her neck would be bare forever.

The priest's words came back to her, the closing lines, and he said solemnly, "The righteous live forever, and in the Lord is their recompense, and the thought of them is with the Most High."

There was a long pause, and Raoul wrapped his arms around her even more tightly and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, meaning to be comforting.

With the service ended, the three musicians in attendance came and gave her more condolences and soft words of compassion before turning and walking away. The priest, who was the priest of the congregation she attended, came over and clasped her hands and spoke more words of the goodness of God and His omniscient nature.

"God would not have taken such a good man without a divine reason," the priest said quietly, his hands fleshy and warm against hers. "Gustave is needed elsewhere. God is your Father, and He will watch over you forever."

Christine nodded, somewhat blankly, and the priest exhorted her to continue her faithful church attendance before leaving.

She stood in silence for several long moments before Raoul rubbed her arms and said quietly, "Are you ready to go? They probably want to get everything…finished up before it starts raining."

Again, she nodded, and Raoul pulled her away and up the gentle slope to his gleaming BMW. He opened the door for her and ensured she was in and buckled before getting in himself and driving away. They were driving away from her father. She would never see him again. He would never play his violin again. It was currently in her closet, transferred from her old apartment to Raoul's, and then to her new apartment. Gustave would never be able to entrance her with its strings ever again.

"Do you want to stay at my place tonight?" Raoul asked. "It might be best."

She shook her head. "I just want to go home," she at last said, her voice hoarse.

"Okay," he said quietly after several silent seconds. There was silence the rest of the way to her apartment, and when they arrived, Raoul saw her to her door. He pulled her in for a crushing embrace, and then he said,

"Everything's going to be all right, okay? You'll get through this, baby. I know you will. Just…just let me know if you need anything. I'm going to call you tomorrow morning to see if you're okay. Just get lots of sleep. It's been a hard morning for you."

She nodded into his chest, and he kissed her before leaving at last. Christine fiddled with her keys in her pocket, staring at the 9B glimmering on the white door. Then, after a few more moments, she turned around and headed back down the hallway and to the elevator.

It had begun to rain, and she waited for a solid ten minutes at the uncovered bus stop, holding her coat over her head, teeth chattering in her knee-length black dress and old, open-toed black heels.

As she rode the bus, the heaters managed to warm her slightly, and the rocking and swaying and creaking of it was somehow soothing. It was familiar, comfortable, and she leaned her head back into the minimally-cushioned headrest, closing her eyes and trying not to think too much on the past several hours.

She departed at the right stop and hurried through the sidewalks, stepping in three invisible puddles on her way. Soaked and completely miserable, she trudged through the downpour and then gratefully stepped underneath the overhang in front of the old theater. Christine glanced over her shoulder a couple times before walking forward and pulling on the handle timidly.

To her complete surprise, it gave way and she was able to slip inside and out of the rain. However, it was still rather chilly, and she felt her skin prickle in protest of her wet clothes and the cold, musty air around her. Trembling from the temperature, she walked through the lobby and into the house, looking around. She knew her makeup was runny and her hair was a disaster, but this was the one place she actually wanted to be. The thought of being anywhere else made her…sick.

As she walked up to the stage, movement on the right wing caught her eye, and Erik emerged. He stopped when he saw her and then instantly dropped the pile of papers he was holding. They scattered onto the stage.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice bouncing around the theater, surrounding her.

"I—I'm—" she stuttered.

"You stupid girl! Are you deaf? Are you mentally impaired? Do you not understand what I tell you?"

She took a step backward, instantly frightened, and Erik nimbly leapt off the stage and approached her. Christine watched him for two seconds before turning to run. However, his long, thin hand caught her wrist, and his grip was too tight to wrench away from. He pulled her over to the stage and up onto it.

"I'm so sorry!" she whispered, still completely clueless as to what he was angry about. "I'm so—Erik! Please!"

He tugged her over to the right wing, and she was whimpering apologies to him. Then, she saw him bend over and pick up something long and dark. He turned around, released her wrist, and grabbed at her wet coat.

"Take this off immediately," he said, and she frantically pulled at it until it slipped off. Erik leaned over and wrapped her up in what he was holding. He pulled it tightly, ensuring that it went all the way around her shoulders to the front of her neck. She looked down, and she saw that she was wrapped up in a very long, fine black coat. It went all the way to her feet. She realized that it must have been Erik's overcoat. It probably only went to his knees or mid-calf, and yet it engulfed her completely.

Then he led her back onstage again and pushed her down on the piano bench. His long scarf was in his hands, and he wrapped it around her throat again, still tugging too tightly. When he disappeared backstage momentarily, she pulled the scarf somewhat so that it wasn't choking her.

He returned, carrying a large, hideous plush armchair. He set it down near the piano and gestured to it.

"It is an old prop, but it will be suitable enough."

Watching him carefully, still slightly afraid that he would start yelling and attack her, she rose from the bench and tiptoed over to the faded chair, sitting down carefully. Erik looked at her for an uncomfortably-long time, and she squirmed under his gaze, staring down at the stage.

Finally, he turned and went back to the piano bench and sat down, yet he looked at her again.

"Now, my dear," he said, his voice a forced calm. "Tell me what you are doing here. Your father's funeral is today, is it not?" he said. She had told him that, and he had allowed her to have a few days free of lessons, to collect herself and grieve. As the Opera House had contacted her and informed her that she wouldn't start rehearsals for another two weeks (they were still in the middle of their current production), Erik had sternly stated that her break from lessons would be at least somewhat acceptable.

"It was," she said at last, her fingers still trembling as she clutched at the coat. "It…just got over."

"And why did you venture out into this dismal weather and run the risk of damaging your voice when you know very well that you have no lessons for the next several days?"

She felt her cheeks warm a little at the question, and she pulled at the thick scarf around her neck. With a small shrug, she looked at her lap, still unsure herself. Erik sighed and pushed his fingers into the line where his mask met his black hair, his glowing eyes disappearing for a moment. Then he stood.

"Stay there," he instructed, his voice very stern. "You will not move, do you understand? I will return shortly."

Christine nodded immediately. Before he left, he walked over and pulled on her scarf again.

"Keep your throat warm," he said. The he walked offstage, and she was left alone and in complete silence for a very long time. Feeling uncomfortable, Christine squirmed around in her seat before kicking off her shoes onto the stage. Then, looking around to ensure that Erik wasn't there, she managed to shimmy out of her nylons, sticking them in the pocket of the coat and making a mental note to grab them before she left. Her dress was damp, and she wanted to take that off as well, but she would never do such a thing. Then she curled up in the chair, the coat and scarf managing to warm her a little.

However, inside she felt cold. Gustave was…gone. Dead. She was never going to see him again. Christine rubbed at her eyes, feeling a headache beginning to form, and she took several deep breaths. She vividly remembered much of her mother's funeral. It had been devastating. She remembered her father wailing beside the open casket, on his knees, and Christine had watched with wide eyes, unable to understand why her Pappa—the strongest, best man in the world—was crying so hard because Moder was sleeping.

For two days afterward, Christine didn't see Gustave once, as he was locked up in his bedroom. Being five, Christine had simply used it as an opportunity to eat whatever she wanted and do whatever she wanted. She slept wherever and whenever she felt tired. However, the novelty soon wore off, and she wanted her Pappa and Moder. When Gustave finally emerged, he had neither slept, eaten, nor showered, and Christine had clung to his leg as he sat down at the table. She had screamed for her Moder, wanting to know where she was and why she wasn't with Christine right now.

Then her förskoleklass—her preschool—had become concerned about her mounting absences, and one thing had toppled after another, and soon she was taken away from Gustave entirely for a whole year.

But now Gustave was gone forever, up in heaven with his wife. Christine pressed her fingertips into her eyes. She hadn't prayed in days. She didn't ask God why He had taken away her father. The things God did made no sense anymore. It seemed like He simply wanted her to be miserable forever.

Erik returned at length, and he approached her. To her surprise, he was bearing a tall, steaming cup, and he presented it to her.

"Drink this," he said.

Christine shifted in the seat and sat up, accepting the cup. It warmed her chilly fingers.

"Thank you," she said quietly, looking into it. It was a light brown liquid. Tea, she supposed. After blowing on it a few times, she took a sip. It scalded her tongue and throat and felt good. It tasted wonderful, like honey and cinnamon.

Erik had gone over at last to gather up the papers that he had dropped, and she watched him silently, holding the tea up to her mouth and letting the steam rise up into her nose.

For some bizarre reason, when Erik was around, the pressure in her chest seemed to lessen just a little. She had no idea why. He was a bad man. He was a murderer. She knew that she needed to be as far away from him as possible, but here she was, and she didn't want to be anywhere else.

As she continued to watch him straighten up the papers and return to the piano bench, she wondered whether it was the music that made her feel minimally better. Erik seemed to possess unsung music in his very being, as if a symphony was always waiting to burst from him. The music always made her feel better about everything. As long as there was music, there was purpose.

She sipped her tea and watched as he jotted down things onto the papers he had collected. His head was tilted and bent at an awkward angle, and his entire frame seemed to draw inward toward what he was writing, as if it was sucking him in.

"Are you composing something?" she then asked unthinkingly.

His head snapped up, almost like he had forgotten she was there, and his glowing eyes were narrowed slightly.

"Yes," he said, without any hint of anger, malice, or bitterness in his voice.

"Can I hear it?" she said, a little encouraged by the fact that he had answered her without his usual sarcasm.

After a slight pause, he said, "Perhaps when it is completed." Then he returned to his odd posture and continued writing. Christine noted the sharp angles of his frame. Somehow everything worked together. Even his strange position looked elegant.

As she watched, she began looking closely at his mask again, wondering what he could be hiding beneath it. His true identity, no doubt. He didn't want anyone recognizing him on a random street and yelling for the police. Still…she again wondered if someday he would trust her enough to remove it—if only in front of her for just a little while. She wouldn't tell anyone, she knew that.

They sat in silence for a very long time, though Christine sensed that it wasn't uncomfortable or awkward. She continued to drink her tea, finding that it was warming her just as much as the coat and scarf. When she was finished with it, she set the cup down by the chair and snuggled back into the coat, simply watching him.

"Do you think my dad was a good man?" Christine asked suddenly.

The scratching of his pen stopped, and he looked up toward her. "I am hardly a man to judge character, my dear," Erik said indifferently. "And in any case, I was not acquainted with your father."

"I know, but…" She rubbed furiously at her eyes. "Even after what he did, do you think he was a good man?"

Erik looked at her for a couple moments and then said, "He borrowed money from a drug lord and neglected to tell you about the dangers involved in such a bargain."

Christine nodded, still grinding her fingers into her eyes. "I know," she whispered.

"However, from what I understand, he did it with only the best intentions. Apparently he was planning to use the extra income to send you to post-secondary school."

"What?" Christine straightened a little. "What do you mean? How—how do you know that?"

"I was told that he spoke with his creditors about his desire to send his daughter to a university. Apparently it was intended to be a gift for the holidays."

Her heart was pounding loudly and frantically in her chest, and she felt sick. "How did you…?" she whispered.

"I was informed of this while paying off your father's debt."

Christine reeled, clutching at her head. "You…?" She couldn't seem to manage complete sentences.

"Naturally," Erik said smoothly. "I could not simply take your father without endangering you. I do not think you understand such men, Christine. If they lost the opportunity to get back their money from your father, they would have turned to you. They are not noble. He wanted his money, and I gave it to him to free your father and to protect you."

Her breath was starting to come faster and shorter, and she shut her eyes tightly, trying to control her racing heart and frantic breaths. Gustave would be alive now if not for her…He had borrowed the money for her, and she had been too poor and too afraid to seek for him sooner. She was the cause of it all, and now he was dead and was never coming back. And Erik…he had done everything for her. She could never repay him, no matter how long and hard she worked. She would always be in his debt. She owed him tens of thousands of dollars, as well as her life.

A pain began to tug in her chest, and she felt sudden, irrational fear that it was tuberculosis, coming to steal her away like it did her father. She was going to die a slow, painful death, just like Gustave. Her sickness increased, and she felt like she was going to throw up. Tremors began to shake her, and she tried to stop them, but she seemed to have no control over it anymore. Her body had a will of its own. With fear filling her, she realized that she could not stop anything her body was doing. She had no control over herself. Completely terrified, she believed that death was coming to steal her. There was nothing that could stop it. The resistant strain couldn't be killed by medicine or other treatments—she was going to die, too.

Something grabbed at her, and she released a painful gasp, keeping her eyes shut tight. She felt herself being laid down on the stage, and a sudden chill around her throat and front told her that the scarf had been removed and the coat had been opened. Through her haze of terror and despair, she heard Erik's rich, soothing voice.

"Christine, calm down."

She wanted to obey him—she didn't want her body acting this way, but she still felt suffocated, and her heart was still racing. She heaved for air, trembling violently. All of her fears were bubbling up, and her vision was swimming.

Gustave was happier now…happier without her…happier now that he was with his wife again—happier than he had ever been with his daughter. He would have chosen his wife over her if he could have, would have traded their places in a heartbeat. Nobody wanted her, not even her own father. She had tried to be everything to him, everything he could have ever wanted, but it was still not enough. She was not her mother. She was only Christine.

Something cold held both of her cheeks, keeping her face turned upward. Erik's voice came again.

"Calm down, Christine. Listen to me."

She managed to reach up and grabbed hold of something, as if it would anchor her. With monumental, exhausting effort, she cracked her eyes open and saw that Erik was kneeling beside her, peering down at her. His hands were cupping her cheeks, and she was gripping his thin, bony wrists tightly.

"Listen to me," he repeated. "You are having a panic attack. I want you to breathe slowly, just as we did in our first lessons. Do you remember how, my dear?"

She wanted to say yes, she did remember, but she couldn't wrench open her mouth or even nod her head. Terror was still clouding her senses, and the pain in her chest was not receding.

Erik tugged his hand away from her grip, and then he took her hand in his and pulled it up to press her palm against his chest. She could feel bones against her hand. His heartbeat was strong and steady. Slowly and carefully, he breathed in and out.

"Just like this," he said. "Do you feel my breathing? You do the same."

There was silence then, and he continued to hold her hand against his chest. He continued his slow, sure breathing. The rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to beat in time to each of his breaths, and the music in his body movement helped her more than anything else. Slowly, with painful, exhausting effort, she tried to match her body up with his.

"Yes," he said softly as he saw her attempts. "Breathe."

After several more long, agonizing minutes, her breath slowed enough for her to manage, and though her heart was still racing, she no longer felt completely out of control. She felt hollow, weak, and shaky, and she continued to grip Erik's wrist with one hand and feel his breathing with the other.

"When was the last time you ate something substantial?" he asked quietly.

Christine strained her memory, and it felt like her entire body protested the conscious and taxing action. She hadn't eaten anything that morning, as her stomach had been too uneasy to try. The only thing she'd had all day was the tea Erik had provided her with. And yesterday…Her head hurt trying to remember.

However, apparently Erik was not waiting for an answer, for he said, "This is a result of your built-up stress and grief. But the music can heal you—don't you know that?"

She did know that. Erik's unsung music had helped her even before this terrifying episode.

Quietly, Erik began to sing, and this calmed her more than anything else in the world would. His beautiful, hypnotizing timbre seemed to enter her body and force everything inside of her to rest. Her heartbeat slowed at last, and she was able to relax fully. Still, she kept her hands in place, needing to feel the music underneath her fingertips. Christine took in a deep, shuddering breath, letting her lungs fill up properly, and then she released it in a shivering sigh, letting her eyes drift close.

His hand on her cheek was cold, she dully noticed, but she tiredly leaned into it, as if it was a pillow. The music was entrancing, and it was gently entreating her to rest. The music always knew best, and so she sighed once more and fell deeply asleep.