It is a strange thing to be father. It is an odd experience to watch the woman you love swell with your child inside her. Over nine months she grows, and then a birth occurs. It is torturous to listen to her screaming in pain for the hours it takes to deliver the baby, but it is wondrous to hear the doctor pronounce the birth of the tiny being.
"A boy!" The man cried ecstatically. My lovely little Christine never looked more radiant then when she took him into her arms. Daintily she kissed the tiny perfect forehead, my heart swelling with love and pride. It is amazing to ear his strong lungs create his first beautiful cries, to watch him nourish from her for the first time.
I watch their first days together in utter awe, as observing a true miracle. My mind can hardly contemplate that I helped create our amazing child, he is too unlike me, too perfect.
As I watch over his crib one night, all these thoughts gather in my mind. He is three months old now, my sweet little Charles. Before I can stop myself I reach out a hand to caress his cheek. A wave of agony courses through me as my hand does naught but ethereally pass through his little face. His eyes open and I swear that his tiny eyes can see my nonexistent shape, although I hope he cannot, I believe it would only frighten him.
A weary sigh escapes me, which cause Christine to roll over in her bed and call my name in her sleep. A steady wave of guilt beat at my mind, she knows I am here and suffers for it. If a soul could shatter, I would. My eyes lock back onto my son. His mother will likely tell him that there is an angel that looks over him from heaven; I doubt she'll tell him it is his true father, but I make a promise none the less that her words will be true always. I will always protect him and his mother, even across this barrier of death. The angel of music may be dead, but whether they know it or not, the De Chagny family will never be without their own guardian angel.