One year later...

Erik sat at his desk, glaring at all the piles on it. Portraits, compositions, scientifical findings; all the work he had done during his time living in the house. Wearily looking at the musical scores, he scooped them up and tossed them into the fire. None of it was worth keeping. His composing ability just seemed to have dried up ever since Christine left, leaving him with just enough of the ability to make emotionless pieces. He wanted to make warm, inviting pieces, not cold, heartless inked papers. Maybe the fire will warm the cold, Erik thought as he stared, frowning, at the hearth.

He was tired of composing. Tired of music. He had felt this before, but it seemed to have worsened over the year.

It seemed that Christine had stolen not only his heart, but his music. But she had only returned the fractured remains of his love, keeping his beautiful gift to herself.

Is this what dying feels like? Losing all love, all the love you've ever had? I am dying, it seems. I am dying of a broken heart.

Erik stayed immersed in thought. What else was there to life? He was over half a century old and had mastered all the arts. Was it... but that was unthinkable! There had to be something else! Something worth living for.

I have mastered the arts. Painting, composing, singing, playing, magic, even murder! My abilities lie from medicine to illusion; contracting to ventriloquism. What else is there?

As Erik continued to explore his mind for ideas – and draw a blank – he unconsciously left the room, opened the front door, and stepped out. He wandered through the orchard, roamed the garden, and returned back to the porch.

That is it! That is what I shall do! Erik gratefully acknowledged. The idea had finally hit him, and right then and there he stopped. Looking around, he became confused. Hadn't he just been in front of the hearth?

Sadly for him, he did not know that he had wandered around while thinking. Finally scrutinizing his location, he finally surmised that he was on his porch, just outside his house. I really have to be more careful when I think,Erik thought.

Stepping inside his house, he only had a chance to wonder about who could help him in this new task when little Erik Aucoin raced down the cobblestone path. "Hello, Monsieur!"

Oh, dear...

Erik had grown a specific dislike and friendliness to this child who visited him weekly, the same feeling that he felt towards Nadir. The feeling was hard to explain; he missed him when he was gone, but found him annoying once here. "Hello, Monsieur Erik. What news do you have that is so important that you have run all the way here?"

"How did you tell?"

"You're panting like a dog, but never mind that; why are you here?"

"Mother isn't feeling well and sent me out of the house."

"What? Her baby is supposed to come this week! It could be coming this second! Why wouldn't she want you at its birth?"

"I don't know... I've seen all the other births."

"Come! We must head to your house now!"

"But Monsieur – it's so far away!"

"You ran here, didn't you? You should be able to run back!"

"But -"

"We are going."

Erik's long legged steps equaled three of the boy's tiny ones. After a few minutes of fast-paced walking, the child slowed.

"What is it?"

"I'm so tired! I've ran this path one and a half times today!"

"Fine! You do not have to walk anymore," Erik replied. Instructing the other Erik to climb onto his back, the boy did so without complaint. But, as soon as the boy was up and on, he commented, "Wow, Monsieur, you're very thin!"

Continuing at his pace, Erik coldly answered, "I've heard."

And that was the end of that conversation.

They reached the house in record time. By the time Erik stepped into the house, the midwife was already prompting Madam Aucoin with the birth. Suddenly feeling unwelcome, he stayed out of the room and lurked about the hallway. This seems so painful, yet Madam Aucoin has done this seven times! What are women thinking when they decide to have children? Erik wondered. It just seemed so crazy...

Erik was vaguely aware of the woman's cries of pain. Finally, after a couple of hours, they stopped, leaving him breath a sigh of relief. The cries of pain were replaced by cries of joy and... what was that horrible noise?

A wretched shrieking annoyed his ears. The baby had such a sexless voice. Did my voice sound like that? It couldn't possibly have – Mother would have killed me on the spot.

Abruptly jerked out of his swirl of thoughts by the little Aucoin boy who was motioning for him to see the baby, Erik followed him into the room.

The baby was so... ugly!

Yet the mother looked on with love and adoration. The infant wasn't deformed like Erik had been. It was a perfectly normal baby.

If all normal babies are ugly, then why didn't Mother love me?

Erik looked at the baby with agonizing jealousy.

Then, the mother spoke.

"Would you like to hold Clarice, Monsieur Boucher?"