Alone. The word seemed to pound in her brain, over and over. Alone, alone. She really was alone now. Mr. Khan was gone, across the country. Despite her frantic begging, he had left. She wasn't angry at him. She understood perfectly why he had gone. But she was distraught nonetheless.

Erik was unhappy about her melancholy, but she didn't have the energy to care or try to act otherwise. Her performances continued to be average. When she wasn't performing or practicing, she spent a lot of the time lying on the sofa, staring at the wall. Alone now. No one knew where she was, and no one cared. If she ever got out, there was no one to go to.

It made her sick to think of it. Now that Erik couldn't blackmail her with Mr. Khan's life, she was free to talk, to refuse to sing, to run. But there was nowhere to go. Christine realized that she had nothing outside of the Opera House, no job prospects or skill set or money. There were no family or friends of any kind. The only person was Raoul, but they had broken up so long ago, and she wasn't sure if he even still thought about her, let alone cared.

"I didn't realize you had grown so attached to Nadir," Erik said one morning. "I might have tried to persuade him to stay had I known."

She didn't respond, instead rolling over on the couch to stare at the ceiling. Erik could do whatever he wanted to her, and there would be no one to miss her or worry.

Concerned about his injury, she later asked Erik if Mr. Khan had made it safely to Los Angeles.

"Yes, he did," Erik said. "He said the ocean air is doing him good."

Weeks ago, she might have asked if she could also stay in contact with Mr. Khan, maybe through letters or email. Now, she didn't even bother, knowing what the answer would be.

In an obvious attempt to take her mind off it, Erik took her on a drive one night. He told her a story about how, a few years ago, he had locked Carlotta in her dressing room, and they had had to call the fire department to break the door down. It was supposed to make her laugh. She gave a small, "Ha."

He paused, apparently displeased at her response, and then said, "I understand you are sad that Nadir is gone. But is Erik not enough for you?" He rested his long fingers on her hand. "I could be your friend too if you would let me."

Did he even hear himself? Her friend. It made her stomach turn, and she pulled her hand away, looking out of the window pointedly. He didn't speak the rest of the drive.

A few days later, he did some more magic tricks for her, and despite her best efforts, she enjoyed them, smiling when he pulled out the right cards, laughing when he did tricks with his voice. It did cheer her up a little, strangely enough.

What touched her the most, however, was one quiet evening in which he told her to get ready to go out. She had the evening off of performing, and she silently pulled on her shoes, expecting to go for another awkward drive around the city. However, to her surprise and joy, they went to the cemetery, and Erik stayed behind while she visited her father, sitting on the grass next to his grave and crying into her knees. She didn't feel the need to say anything. Her father knew what was on her heart, and she traced his name a few times. Then she kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the headstone before standing and going back to the car.

"Thank you, Erik," she said quietly as they drove. To try to show that she meant it with all her heart, she reached over and put her fingers over his. His hand twitched a little, but then he kept it very still, and they sat there, their hands touching awkwardly, until they arrived back at the Opera House.

The visit to her father's grave seemed to be a soothing balm to her broken heart, and she could feel herself beginning to come out of her slump. She tried instead to be happy for Mr. Khan, imagining him sitting on some nice sandy beach, sunscreen on his long nose, truly relaxing for probably the first time in twenty years. He was right to get away. It was what she wanted to do, after all. And she had gotten herself into this mess. It wasn't fair to ask Mr. Khan to sacrifice himself to get her out.

To her surprise, she ran into Meg Giry a few evenings later, both of them emerging into the same hallway from different rooms.

"Christine!" Meg said, looking surprised. "Hey! It's been a while."

"Oh," she replied stupidly. "Yeah. Hi. How are you?"

"Fine," Meg said, shrugging. "Just working on a piece for an upcoming show. It's going to be at a smaller theater downtown. Blackbox, modern. You know the kind. A little weird." She laughed. "But it's fun still."

"Oh, yeah," Christine said, not entirely sure what she was talking about. "You're rehearsing here though?"

"Yeah, the rehearsal space at the other venue is being renovated, so we're here for now. But I hear you're doing well in Elektra! Everyone is talking about how good you are."

Christine could feel her cheeks go a little pink in pleasure and embarrassment. "That's nice of them to say," she said. "I'm just happy to still have the role after…well, you know. Everything."

"Of course," Meg said, nodding. "I bet that nobody will be talking about the Ghost pulling strings for you now that they see you deserve it!"

"Heh," Christine said, praying that she didn't sound nervous. "Yeah, hopefully."

"Are you going to the closing night party?" Meg then asked. "Maybe we can catch up there. I'll be there to hang out with some other friends. We can all go as a group!"

"Er, yeah," she said vaguely. "I really want to. I'll try my best."

They chatted for only a few more minutes before the soft dinging of a bell signaled to Christine that she had to make her way to the stage. Meg gave her a quick hug.

"Break a leg tonight!" she said. "Come to the closing night party, okay?"

Christine nodded, already knowing she wouldn't be in attendance, and said goodbye.

Everyone is talking about how good you are. She couldn't help herself and told Erik about the comment later that evening after her performance.

"Of course they are talking about you," he said. "Yours is the only real talent here. But you are still determined to hold back your true gift." He tilted his head to the side, looking at her closely. "If I knew how to get it out of you, you would make them fall to their knees."

She had some idea of what he was talking about. It was that weightless, ecstatic feeling she had only experienced a handful of times. It was when the music was a part of her, as real as her blood or hair or fingers. And Erik wanted her to show that part of herself to the world. But she didn't know how. Maybe she was holding back out of fear. Maybe she was still too nervous to let go and wanted to keep at least something for herself.

A few nights later, as she was applying her makeup, a woman she didn't recognize approached her. The woman was a member of the staff, not a performer, and she was shuffling through a stack of papers, noisily chewing on a piece of gum, looking bored.

"Christine Day?" the woman said.

Christine nodded, not bothering to correct the pronunciation. The woman held out three envelopes, and Christine frowned.

"What are those?" she asked.

The woman shrugged, now appearing a little annoyed. "I don't read your mail, sweetheart."

Christine took the envelopes with a murmured thanks and then opened the first one. It was a short handwritten note.

Dear Miss Daae,

I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your performance last Tuesday night. You have a wonderful voice, and I so enjoyed listening to you. I know you probably don't think your role is very important, but please know that I noticed you. I hope you keep singing and get better roles!

Sincerely,

Cathy Schmidt

The other notes were much like the first: a few sentences about how well she sang and how much they enjoyed her performance. Christine could feel herself flush with pleasure. She had never in her wildest dreams expected to receive fan mail.

Erik, however, was less than pleased.

He held out his hand after she told him about the letters, and she hesitantly gave them to him. His eyes narrowed as he read them, and his lips twisted into a sneer.

"Already quite devoted, aren't they, your little fanclub?" he said, eyeing one letter derisively. "Yes, let's see…Ah, this Santiago Martínez wants you to know that he has promised to buy tickets to all your upcoming performances. And look…he's included his phone number…"

Her stomach dropped instantly. This had been a mistake.

"I didn't see that," she said honestly. "I didn't. You can keep the letters, Erik. I just thought it was nice that people liked my performance. I mean…isn't that the whole point?"

He stacked the letters together neatly and tucked them into the inside pocket of his jacket. "Of course. Of course that's the point. But we must be careful. Your genius is becoming known. We can't have some nobody get it into his head to come sniffing around. You should give me all the mail you receive. Unopened. Just in case."

The applause was wonderful. The praise from her directors and fellow performers was also wonderful. But the fan mail had made her feel so good, more connected to the audience, and now she wouldn't even be able to read any of it.

He could sense her hesitation and unwillingness, and he gave an impatient tut with his tongue. "Of course I will give you back the letters to read, my dear," he said, as if offended she had thought otherwise. "I simply want to ensure they are safe and appropriate for you. You don't know what kind of people are out there."

The obvious answer to that last statement hung in the air, waiting for her to say it, but she instead nodded. "Okay. I guess that's…fine."

The next time she handed him a bundle of envelopes, he returned two of the four letters. They were both from women, short notes of praise and encouragement for her to "keep going" and "don't forget to keep smiling!" Whatever happened to the letters he kept, she never knew. Burned them, probably.

A few days later, she arrived backstage in a bit of a gloomy mood, the sadness of Mr. Khan's departure still lingering. She had asked Erik if he missed Nadir, and Erik had actually laughed. That had made her even sadder.

With a small sigh, she opened her cupboard to pull out her stage shoes and makeup. To her surprise, an envelope fluttered out and to the ground. Thinking it was a piece of fan mail someone had slipped into her cupboard, she picked it up without much thought, glancing at the front. Her stomach rolled, however, when she saw that her name was scribbled on the front in handwriting that was very much familiar to her.

Christine glanced around, sweat immediately prickling her forehead. All the other women were busily preparing to go onstage, nobody sparing her a glance, and she clutched the envelope so tightly in her hand that she crushed it slightly. Trying not to appear nervous or frightened, she closed the cupboard door and made her way to the bathroom at the end of the dressing room, exchanging small, forced smiles with some of the others as she passed. The paper felt like it was burning her palm.

The stall door closed with a louder slam than she had wanted, and she winced as the lock noisily clicked into place. It all sounded like alarms, sounds to noisily ring through the entire Opera House and alert Erik that she was holding a letter from Raoul de Chagny in her hand.

Hastily, she slid the letter out of the envelope and smoothed out the wrinkled paper, reading quickly, voraciously, scarcely daring to breathe.

Christine,

I know you might not want to hear from me. I would understand if you called me or sent me a message and told me to leave you alone. But I'm worried about you. I try to call, no answer. I send a text, no answer. I've even gone by your apartment a few times. It never even sounds like you're home.

I don't know if any of this will make sense to you, but I got in contact with a man a while ago. He told me that you were in trouble and that you needed my help. He made me promise to meet him at a certain time and place, but when I got there, there was nothing and no one. I felt like a complete idiot, but I wouldn't have forgiven myself if you really needed my help and I wasn't there. That guy was probably just some weird admirer of yours from the opera and knew we had once dated.

I guess the point is that I haven't heard one word from you to let me know that you are okay. I saw you in the opera one night, and you looked great. But when I waited for you afterwards, I never saw you leaving the Opera House. I waited for you to arrive to work a few days later, but nothing. I even tried to get backstage a few times, but they've never let me through.

I don't want to sound paranoid, I promise I'm not. It's just weird that someone tells me you're in trouble, and then I never hear from you again. So this is my last attempt. If you don't want to hear from me ever again, please at least send me one last text telling me to back off, and I promise I will.

Hope you're doing well,

Raoul

Christine read the letter three times, her nose nearly brushing the page, devouring every loop and swirl and dot of the ink. It was like a burst of sunshine, and she felt tears beginning to form in her eyes. Quickly, she wiped them away, not wanting to break down before a performance.

Raoul really was still out there, and he was worried about her. The thought caused the first true smile in days to spread across her lips, and she pressed her lips to the paper, closing her eyes, wishing she could smell him through the words.

Of course he would not have been able to reach her. She had not left the Opera House on her own in weeks. She had not seen her phone since that horrible night. But that had not stopped him from trying. He had found a way to get this letter to her. He still cared about her.

She continued to reread the letter, over and over again, until there was a loud knock on the bathroom door. Jumping slightly, she stuffed the letter into her pocket and hastily unlocked the door, leaving the bathroom with a murmured apology. She had nearly forgotten where she was. A bubble of joy filled her chest, and she cheerfully changed into her costume, did her hair and makeup, and hid the letter in one of her shoes in her cupboard, patting it tenderly before following the other performers to the wings for the opening scene.

Her performance that night was spectacular. She could hardly stop smiling, even though her character did not call for that, but Raoul's words had given her more happiness than she had felt in a long time. The applause that night was more generous than usual, and she took a few extra bows, blushing and grinning as the audience whistled and cheered for her. Mr. Gabriel found her afterward and complimented her, and several other cast members gave her approving nods or a thumbs up as she made her way back to the dressing room. To her relief, the letter was still there, undisturbed, and she could not resist going back to the bathroom to read it again.

When she could no longer stall, she changed out of her costume and folded up the letter, tucking it in her bra. She checked in the mirror to ensure it was not visible. The thought of leaving it up here was unbearable—she needed it with her at all times, or else she would convince herself that she had imagined it all.

Erik was suspicious.

"You were sublime tonight," he said by way of greeting. "Quite sublime."

"Thank you," she replied. She followed him down into the tunnels, hoping he could not hear her heartbeat. The corner of the folded-up letter poked her soft breast.

"What's the occasion?"

"Mm?" she said, hoping to sound casual.

"The occasion. For such a magnificent performance."

"I just…I wanted to do well for you?" she tried softly. "I love performing, I really do. I was happy to be onstage tonight."

"Weeks of sullen unhappiness suddenly vanishing. How fortunate."

She swallowed. "I guess. I don't know what you want me to say. Do you want me to be unhappy?" The last part she regretted saying instantly.

"Don't ask such stupid questions," he snapped. "You know I would give you everything if you just let me."

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the house. All she wanted to do was lock herself up and read the letter again, trace the indent of the pen, memorize every small smudge and imperfection. Let Erik brood and sulk—he could not pull her down, not tonight.

It would look suspicious if she darted to the bedroom immediately, so she lingered, making a show of taking off her shoes and getting settled. She pretended to be interested in picking a book to read, looking over the titles on the shelves, not reading any of them but instead envisioning Raoul's handsome, strong face.

"You are…you are lovely."

She turned, confused at the words, and found Erik standing behind the sofa awkwardly, looking at her. He gripped the bottom of his jacket and then let go.

"You are lovely," he said again. "You really were quite wonderful tonight. I am pleased to see you finally enjoying your success."

She hesitated, wondering if he was trying to trick her. "Thank you," she said again. Although she wanted to turn back to the bookshelf, she sensed that he had more to say, and she waited.

"I am…" he began. Then he shook his head. "You are…" He let out an exasperated sigh. "God, I'm terrible at this, aren't I?" He didn't wait for her to answer. "It was good to see you smile again. You have not smiled in so long. I was wondering if you had forgotten how."

The attempt at a lame joke was not lost on her, and she tried to appease him with a small smile. It seemed to work. He straightened just a little.

"I do want you to be happy. You know that. I would give you anything you wanted. You only need to ask. You know that, don't you?"

"I know," she murmured. He really would give her anything she wanted. Except he wouldn't give her anything he didn't want her to have. And the things he didn't want her to have were the only things she wanted from him.

He told her to go to bed, it was late, she needed to stay well-rested in order to keep having such magnificent performances, and she didn't need him to tell her twice. Once she had locked herself in the bathroom, she pulled the letter out and read it again and again. A few tears slid down her cheeks, but she made sure they didn't land on the paper.

She wanted to sleep with the letter underneath her pillow, but that was too risky. Instead she buried it underneath her clean underwear, hoping to god that Erik didn't go rifling around in there, and she lay there in the darkness, wracking her brain to figure out how to respond.

Christine rolled over, squeezing her eyes shut tight. No, she couldn't. Shouldn't. It was the stupidest thing she could possibly do. If Erik ever found out, he would go straight after Raoul. She needed to keep the letter her happy little secret and leave it at that. Anything more would do nothing but invite disaster.

Still, she couldn't help but think about what Raoul was doing at that very moment. Was he also in bed, thinking about her? With a blush, she remembered the nights they had shared together in his bed. It felt like a different lifetime. She felt like a different person entirely.

Unable to help herself, she got up, fumbling around in the dark, and rummaged around in the drawer, feeling the letter, smooth underneath her fingertips. It was real. He really had written that letter to her. He still cared about her, and she felt herself smiling in the darkness.

She was going to respond.