It was only after being glimpsed one too many times by his neighbors and the whispered gossip had reached his ears that he decided to abandon the home that had been given to him in lieu of the sum he'd been promised for the various works he'd composed for the good Professor. Before leaving, he'd been sure to sell what would fetch a price so as to limit any would-be thief's temptation to break into what he hoped would be his home again in the future. He did so enjoy being near the sea.
Under cover of night, he stole away on a horse stolen from a particularly nosy neighbor. His packs were light; everything he would need was already in place in his new home. It was a home that offered greater privacy than the house in Perros-Guirec ever could. A home of his own design, one he'd manage to sneak under the noses of every single worker at the opera house, even as they helped him build it!
He abandoned the horse at a farm just outside of Rennes and bought a train ticket to Paris. He was uncertain about being trapped in such a small space with other people, but he knew it would take him far longer to reach his destination by horseback and he had no intention of spending upwards of a week riding a horse and sleeping at inns where the innkeepers would treat him like a criminal.
He didn't allow himself to relax until he was safely inside the opera house and out of the watchful eye of the public. How could he when everyone he came in contact with or even passed on the street stared at him as though he'd grown a second head before their very eyes?
It had taken him more than eight months of fairly casual work to construct a livable house on the lake in one of the lower cellars of the opera house. He was quite proud of his work, especially that he'd managed to furnish his little home entirely with items pilfered from the opera.
Unlike the gossip in Perros, which had painted him to be a murderer and possibly a witch, he found the gossip that was passed around the opera house quite amusing. They called him the Opera Ghost, a moniker he found delightfully fitting. He hid in shadows and moved in near-total silence. Nobody had seen him yet, though the stagehands told tales of a tall figure dressed all in black with glowing white eyes.
Fools, he thought as he crossed the lake in a tiny boat of his own construction. My eyes are yellow, not white.
He found it amusing how easily he could stroll about the opera house. He'd just come from the pantry, where he'd nearly been spotted by one of the kitchen ladies as he'd stolen through the shadows. In a small bag slung over his shoulder, he hid a few pieces of fruit and half of a loaf of bread. The meager supply of food would feed him for more than a week, and that would give him time to figure out his financial situation.
When Saeed left him all those years ago, he'd made certain that the young man had some way of supporting himself. Somehow he'd managed to secure him a job helping construct the new Opera House, which was fast nearing completion. He had laid the beginnings of his home then. It hadn't taken much to convince other workers to do the heavy lifting for him.
His home had six rooms, including two bedrooms and a full bathroom.
In theory, the second bedroom would be for his wife. He laughed at the idea whenever it happened to flit through his thoughts. What woman would have me? What woman would live in the cellars of an opera house? He knew the answer to those questions he never asked aloud. There would be no wife for him, no woman to share his life with.
His home was sparsely decorated but well furnished, even boasting an ornate pipe organ in the center of his study, which was just to the right of the main door. To the left of the door was his library, lined with handcrafted shelves that were bare at the moment but would eventually come to be filled with books on every subject he could possibly wish to study.
Straight ahead from the door was the kitchen, and off the kitchen were the bedrooms. Between the bedrooms and only accessible through either bedroom lay the bathroom. The bathtub was deep enough that he could submerge his entire body to his shoulders, which was no small feat. He was almost certain that he had still not stopped growing. He was nearly eighty-six inches tall at his last measurement, and more than half of that was leg.
He'd taken to making his own clothing out of necessity, and he'd found that he was a natural with a needle and thread. The speed with which he picked up new skills had ceased to surprise him years ago and he'd yet to find something he was unable to learn.
He unlocked the front door and stooped down to enter his home. The doorframe was far lower than necessary for him to walk through without knocking his head off, but he'd done that on purpose. Should a stagehand or one of the managers grow curious enough to investigate, they'd find nothing but a seemingly innocuous locked door.
The doorways and ceiling inside were clearly built for someone of his height, however. He relished in being able to walk about without having to worry about bumping his head on a doorframe or scraping the ceiling with his scalp.
He locked the door once he was inside and deposited his freshly pilfered food in the kitchen before making his way to his study.
After he lit the gas lamps he sat at the organ and uncovered the keys. Their smooth ivory felt cool even against his unnaturally cold skin. He smiled at the sensation as he ran his fingers along the keys.
He removed his mask, placing it lovingly on the bench beside him as he inhaled deeply. The lake kept the air in the cellar just humid enough that he could breathe without pain. It was the first time since leaving London that he could breathe easily without keeping the great gaping hole that served as his nose covered.
He played a few notes on they organ, smiling as the sound echoed through his little home. The sound was warm and calming.
He continued to hit notes in a seemingly random pattern until he formed a melody that actually sounded pleasing to his ears. He played it a few times before feeling confident enough to add to it, and the music flowed effortlessly from that point on.
He played until his fingers trembled and his wrists ached, only stopping when the pain grew to be too great to ignore. As he stood and turned away from the organ, he was overcome with an emotion unlike any he'd ever felt before. He couldn't describe it. It was stronger than any happiness he'd ever felt before and more potent than the suicidal thoughts that had been with him since that night in London.
For once, he truly felt at home.