A/N: Hi guys first a little clarification.

I had to give Daroga a name! One does not write in their diary without putting their name. And no, his name is not Daroga or the Persian or Nadir (that's Kay this is Leroux verse). So Ismael seems the closest legit name he ever got, here's the explanation of this .

Also I tried abide by the timeline fdelopera's goes by and set the story in 1884. It's the most reasonable timeline and it helps me make sense of the story's time frame.

Finally, a huge special thanks to Julia for reading this and soooo kindly editing this. My heart goes out to you.

From the diary of Ismael, April 29, 1884

Seldom do I engage in journal keeping or diaries for purposes other than keeping track of current events or for my personal written accounts. I did write the tale of my descent to the monster's underworld of fire and mirrors in pursuit of the beloved (by Monsieur De Chagny) and periled Christine Daaé, but I assure you it was not without its reasons. My written account of such event did not come as a vanity project or any other superficial sense of self-fulfillment. I did it for truth and most importantly I did it for the Vicomte de Chagny.

Following the dark events of our encounter with the monster beneath the opera cellars, who many once named the Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny was befallen by the news of his brother's death, and, most horrifyingly so, a consequent accusation of foul play. A quick and outrageous tale of how Raoul de Chagny and the late Count De Chagny had gotten into a bitter war over the affections of the young Swedish Soprano Christine Daaé had spread like wild fire. These were, of course, nasty rumors that distorted the loving bond the tied the two brothers (also a more a conspicuous person would of known that the Count never came to the theatre for the opera but rather entirely, if I may be so bold, for the ballet). The tragedy of Phillipe de Chagny and the scandal that followed the De Chagny brothers filled me with such incredible grief that I decided to set the record straight. That is why I wrote my account in the first place, because of pity and grief and as a pursuer of truth.

But did they believe me? Of course not! I often tell myself why I give Europeans the benefit of the doubt. They are quite ignorant people! Now these French policemen did not believe a word Monsieur de Chagny and I said. Poor Raoul de Chagny wept and swore on his god almighty that our tale was true but not even that moved those cold men's conscious. I became angry and might have lost my temper, speaking a few harsh truths to these ignorant officers. Nevertheless, we were miraculously dismissed and Raoul de Chagny, not surprisingly, chose to drop the case and took the full risk of losing his title. But he simply did not care. There was an incredible sadness in his eyes but also hope in his words when he told me he planned to leave France with Mademoiselle Daaé! I was very pleased with the news and wished the couple luck. Of course there was one thing the needed to be done before they could leave…

If this was indeed more than simply a personal narrative, I would apologize to the reader for I have rambled and have lost my train of thought. Indeed, as I clarified before I don't generally write for leisure nor do I believe in journal keeping for personal gains. I have known too many proud men in my life. These men who write pretentiously and shamelessly about their lives, filling books with autographies and nonsense about who they are and what they did... I simply look down upon that! In truth, I do not judge those who have a story to tell but rather those who think they should be rewarded simply because they have a story to tell.

But now I sit here, pen in hand, writing for the sake of writing and I stand myself in a contradiction. My mother, a good woman she was, once told me that we cannot regret the choices we make for they are our very own. My mother also had a good mother. My grandmother passed away one evening when I was very young. My mother never cried. She only wrote. When I asked why she wrote, she said, "To remember and to forget." I was too young to understand what she meant and perhaps I am still too young now. But I am trying to write this to remember and to forget. To forget the sad story of the monster who had been merely a man named Erik, whose only sin was to be born and have loved. And perhaps I write to remember it, as well.

I will try to go in chronological order and I will try to make sense of things. This is the account how I and the extraordinary Christine Daaé buried the body of Erik and put its ghostly legend to rest.

It was a Thursday evening and the weather was decent. Although I lived many years in Paris I have never been quite used to the city's weather. I do hardly complain, for Paris' weather is most certainly agreeable. It was good weather that day which I suppose it made the entirety of the event a bit more unusual. I had eaten earlier at the café nearby in hopes some food in my stomach would calm my nerves. In truth, I was asking for strength from anywhere to overtake Erik's strange last request. But alas, I believe God had more important things to attend to that day.

I waited by the Rue Scribe and tried to dispel suspicion by casually walking in either direction as a lost tourist. Thanks to my obvious looks and dressing manner, it came quite naturally. In all honesty, my worry and nerves rested in Christine Daaé who appeared to be running late.

She had agreed to come and I trusted her word. I did not wish to doubt the sincerity of Mademoiselle Daaé's words. She had promised Erik she would come back and bury him in return for her freedom. He had explicitly asked her to come back and return the ring he had given her as a wedding present. Such a morbid gift! A gift that, however, had been well-accepted by Mademoiselle Daaé, as Raoul De Chagny would later confess to me that she never took the ring off her finger. Not even for a second! He said in a joking manner (which was not funny to me) that she would probably not return the ring even when asked to because said little ring was permanently glued to her finger.

I had this conversation with the former Vicomte de Chagny just a day prior to my current engagement with Mlle. Daaé. I suppose I might explain things from the beginning.

Yes, Erik visited me. And in such a state he visited me! Between his sobbing and weeping, he managed to spew the tale of how he let Christine Daaé and Raoul de Chagny go. I believed him. His manner told me I could. No one could ever question whether or not the monster was lying in that moment. For in that moment, he stopped being monster in my eyes and became a man. And he wept just like any other man-and I wept with him. I pitied him.

He left not long after, but before he parted he did ask of me one last favor. He instructed me how he wished to be buried and how Christine Daaé was to be notified of his death. I did not question him. I am not ashamed of accepting to follow to his last whims. If you had seen his face, and I do clarify I am not speaking about his deformity, if you had seen the terrible sadness of his eyes and the grief that hung over him, well-I could not deny him anything in that moment. Such a pitiful creature he was! Poor Erik!

A day passed and the strange event of his visit would not leave my head. It haunted me. He said he was dying but had he been right? Could heartache cause death? I myself had been victim to quite a few broken hearts but seldom did they send me to the edge of death. But Erik, as I as saw him, looked very much a few inches of Death's grip. I was worried and so I went to visit him that very next morning.

I got there quickly. The Rue Scribe had now become a child's game and deciphering Erik's secret passages was no longer a challenge. I walked through the cellars in darkness, deep in worry but with a lost sense of fear. I did not fear these dark paths as I did once when I walked with Monsieur de Chagny a week back. And strangely, that made me even more anxious! Why had I suddenly loss my sense of fear? I should be afraid of Erik's traps, the Master of Traps himself! And yet I did not fear. I did not fear as if I knew the danger that once haunted these walls was gone. As if I knew what I would find…

I am a chief of police-I once was. I have seen great, terrible things. I have seen death. I have been inches from death myself. And yet, I believe there are things we see that we cannot undo. Things we cannot erase from our minds, from our eyes. Things that stay with us even after all so many years. This is how I feel to what I encountered that day in the lake house.

I entered Erik's house quietly. I do not know why I did this except I did. I suppose cautiousness is always one of my recessive traits. I was being quite cautious until I saw the house was seemingly empty.

"Erik!" I called out despite myself. In truth, I wanted to find him, to see him and put away my endless trail of macabre thoughts. I step into the diner where I found a sole glass of red wine on the table. It was full, as if the person who had managed few sips but became sickened by the taste.

I checked every room until I realized that there was only was place left to check: the bedroom. I stepped in timidly, frightened to be honest. I saw the organ, and in the dead center of the room a coffin draped by red velvet curtains. I wondered what, or who, would be in the coffin. I dared not speak his name.

I moved forward, pushing my body as far as I could, and I peeked through the curtains only once. And then I gasped and moved away holding my breath as if I were the last time I would breathe! I had seen him. Dead. He looked very much asleep but I knew he was dead.

I let out a sob, whether it was of grief or fear I can't recall, and I gathered myself as I moved towards the black coffin. I had to inspect the body. I knew he was dead but I had to make sure he was dead. I do not think he would trick either me or Mlle. Daaé at this point, but I had to know!

I walked closer and a more careful inspection allowed me to appreciate the despair of the scene.

He lay there quite dead but looking as if he slept. There was an odd peacefulness to his face. I saw his face for he wore no mask. I scanned quickly my surroundings and saw the simple black mask on the side of the coffin. He must have taken it off. He must have taken it off between deep sobs just as he had done in my house when he struggled to breathe. It might have been of no use, for his discomfort was more internal than external. I shook my head in sadness and in pity. Poor Erik!

My grief grew when I saw what lay with him in the coffin. A stack of papers marked in red ink with the title "Don Juan Triumphant" scribbled on it. Just as he said. He had kept his promise to take his work with him beyond the grave! Another a piece of paper caught my eye. It was also a musical piece, but it was not scribbled in red, except with a few red marks here and there, the paper was scribbled in blue and with foreign writing on the top. It was certainly not French but I managed to make out the words 'Christine'.

I only sighed and removed the paper from the coffin. I placed it firmly on the organ. I figured this was meant for Christine's eyes and surely should not be buried with him. Perhaps there was a hidden meaning only she should understand. With my heart being too full of grief, I took his black mask off the floor and placed it carefully on his face. I could give him at least that.

I exited the room and did a final police search on the house. I was not looking for anything in particular, except perhaps clues on how he had died. Indeed, I found none and I had to deduce on the unlikely.

The most obvious to me was the full cabinet of food in his kitchen. He had probably neglected all food and water in his sorrow. Seeing the red wine glass also confirmed my suspicion that because of the state of his being he could no longer enjoy the simple pleasures of life. The dusty state of the organ also suggested a neglect of his music, a drive which had fed his gloomy existence and possibly was the only thing that had made it bearable. I deduced, then, Erik perhaps had not died because of broken heart but because of a will to live. He gave up on life when Mademoiselle Daaé took his ring and left. He truly did. He had not lied to me when he said he was dying. He probably even died the day she left, inside at least.

And what more do I have to say? I did as he bid. That same day I took up the newspaper ad. "ERIK IS DEAD", simple and to the point as he requested. It was printed the following morning.

I took haste for I was anxious to finish my morbid task as soon as possible. The sight of him in his coffin was already giving me nightmares. That same evening I visited the Mlle. Daaé and Monsieur de Chagny at the Madame Valerius' residence, where I heard the two of them were staying. I was eager to learn if they had heard the news.

Upon walking to the residence, however, I was surprised to see Raoul de Chagny at the door steps, sitting there with a look of terrible grief. I bid him good evening and proceeded to ask if he had seen the news ad earlier this morning.

"Seen? No, but she did. She came and she showed me," he said miserably.

"So Mlle. Daaé knows?" I inquired.

"Knows? I do not know if she truly knows. I suppose she does in some way," he said shaking his head in the same miserable fashion of his voice.

I asked him to explain for he was speaking in riddles.

"Oh, Monsieur Daroga! [for Monsieur de Chagny did not know my name and figured 'daroga' was my name as if he saw me refer to myself a such] If only you known what a terrible day it's been for all of us!" he said in grief.

"Oh, I know about Erik's death because she came and told me. She came into the house hysterical and she cried as she handed me the paper and ran to her room. I quickly read it and rushed to her. Indeed I was stopped by Madame Valerius who implored me it would be better to leave her alone and let her deal with her grief privately. I did so. That was early morning, Monsieur! Later this afternoon, I went to her room offering her my sincere condolences. She looked at me, oh, so confused! She asked me what I meant. I grew confused and said that I sincerely pitied Erik's death and gave her my condolences.

Then she laughed! So amusingly so that I felt I had been left out of a good joke! 'Erik's not dead, silly, I saw him yesterday! But you must not let him see me with you! Come to the Masked Ball, Raoul. Wear a domino costume, don't let him see us! He shall be there waiting for me as he always is. How I fear him! Poor, unhappy Erik!' When I told her she was not making any sense, she shook her head sadly and said, 'No, Raoul, you must not let him see you. He'll kill you! I can't let him kill you. But leaving him will kill him! Yes it will kill him!' 'Erik is dead,' I said. She then laughed at me and told me again how silly I was and that she loved me very much. I said the same words to her again and then her laughter turned into tears. She called me a liar and told me to leave her room! She yelled such terrible things to me and she did so in long, horrible sobs…"

Poor Monsieur de Chagny broke out in tears. I only sighed in sadness and agreement. The poor girl had gone mad!

"She's better now," he said quietly. "Madame Valerius spoke to her and fed her soup. She cried even more. I never seen her shed so many tears! She's been confined to her bed and all she does is weep and cry."

"She is no state to complete Erik's final task," I mused.

"No, but she will! She told me so. The day we left his house. I told her, 'Christine, you don't have do that! You don't owe him anything!' She spoke firmly in response, 'I gave my word. I will return! I promised.' She spoke with such conviction, Monsieur, that regardless of her situation right now, I know she will do it! I can't talk her out of it. Believe me, I tried."

He shook his head again in grief and looked down. I had begun to think there was no end to the Vicomte's misery! How strange is it that Erik still haunts us from beyond the grave. How strange and sad, indeed.

"So when is it to be done?" I asked carefully.

"A few days from now, maybe? Knowing her she'll be up tomorrow morning on her way to meet you. I shall let her know you came by and that you intend to carry out the request. She is no state for you to see her today. But tomorrow…I shall let her know. And we'll see from there," he said in a sigh.

Poor Raoul de Chagny! To have found love and to have the love of your life be in such a situation is a shame. He was obviously concerned for Mlle. Daaé's safety and more so for her emotional well-being, but alas he knew she had made her choice. A choice she intended to stick with.

With nothing more to say, I bid him goodnight and walked the dark path to my house.

His words came true as the following morning I received a letter from Mlle. Daaé that instructed me to meet her the following evening in front of the Rue Scribe to carry out Erik's request. I found it almost amusing that she wrote in the bottom of the page 'Please make haste!'

And so I'm here again where I begin my story. I was waiting for Mlle. Daaé where she instructed me to meet her. She was running late. I paced back in forth in sudden worry she had backed out or had another madness episode but alas she showed.

I recognized her face, a face that had seem to have aged prematurely by the heavy, black dress she wore. Her blonde hair was pulled up and revealed a grief-stricken face that matched the mood of her dress exactly. She looked fit for a funeral. When I saw her approach I greeted her evening and she apologized for her lateness.

She said that Monsieur de Chagny had made quite a scene earlier that the day as he had insisted to come. She would not permit him such thing, she explained to me. I nodded as I understood that this was a personal affair to her, one that the Vicomte could not attend.

She only sighed in response and asked, "You've seen him?"

"Yes," I said simply.

"Oh," she said and shook her head. There was a terrible grief in her voice but I also noticed how composed she sounded. Whatever had been that poor mad girl Monsieur de Chagny described days ago was gone. Before me stood a woman, I realized. I had envisioned her too many times as a girl-victim of the circumstances but perhaps I had been wrong. She spoke again, "Please take me to him."

I did as she bid.

We walked slowly and in darkness. I was surprised she knew the path quite as well as I! She even stopped various times to show me short cuts or secret passages. It appeared Erik had taught her well how to move among these walls. I suppose he took precaution in case one day Mlle. Daaé found herself lost in the blackness of the labyrinth and he could not reach her. Indeed it was that case today.

I found myself attempting to make small talk with her. I supposed she was just as scared as I was and could use some words, if any, of encouragement.

"He taught you well how to move among these walls," I said turning around to face her.

Her face was covered in shadows and I moved my dim light to illuminate her. She only sighed again. Oh those sighs. Such terribly sad sighs!

"He did. I supposed he didn't want me to get lost," she said. "Quite useless knowledge even now."

She then frowned and asked, "Monsieur, when you last saw him… I mean, when you saw him before [I forgot to mention that I informed Raoul of my meeting with Erik and I supposed the Vicomte told his beloved], did he speak of me?"

"Yes," I said continuing to trek, "yes, he did."

"What did he say?" she inquired nervously.

I told her everything. Even the long sobs and the mask incident. Now I feel I should have omitted such details. In truth I am not always the most sensible of persons, I curse my insensitivity now as I think of it.

She did not cry to my relief but merely sighed again.

"Poor Erik!" she said with a strained voice, "it hurt me to leave him like that. He was crying when I left. I supposed I could have insisted to stay but then I would have risked Raoul's very life! I could do very little at that point. He had let me go and I thanked him with all my heart for it. He made me promise to return his ring…"

I stopped suddenly to turn around and look at her. I had forgotten about the ring. She was still wearing just as the Vicomte had said. She twisted the precious gold band in her finger. It was nothing special, only merely a wedding band as one might expect.

"You intend to return it," I said.

"Yes, I shall place it back on the very finger it came from," she said.

The thought struck me as morbid. When Erik had spoken of Christine Daaé returning to the ring, I often pictured her placing inside his coffin or throwing it inside his grave. I never imagined her actually placing the gold band on his hand, let alone his fingers. Would she really touch the dead? Even I had been squeamish when I placed Erik's mask. I wondered how this fragile girl would react.

I inquired no more and moved on towards the path as we drew closer to Erik's lake house.

I stepped in first. I, then, made way for Mlle. Daaé. As she entered the residence, her manner changed. Her quiet and stone hard appearance from minutes earlier dissolved. Her face filled when melancholy as she begin to walk around the room in a restless state. When I was about to ask if she was alright I heard her let out a shriek.

"The glass! A wine glass!" she said pointing to the lone wine glass on the dining table.

In my carelessness I had forgotten to remove Erik's glass of wine. In truth, I had left the house half in grief and half in shame for I feared to be alone with his corpse too long. I am a grown man and still I tremble at the thought of being surrounded by the dead! How ashamed I am! And how ashamed I was to expose Mlle. Daaé to such situation.

"He must have forgotten to drink it… I shall remove it," I said

"No, you don't understand! That's my place," she said nearing the table. She slammed her hand next to where the wine glass was causing the liquid to spill. "I sat here! This was my seat."

I began to understand.

"He sat there!" she pointed at the other edge of the table. "That's where he sat. Where he would always sit! Oh, why would he sit here when it was my place?"

She shook her head and let out a small whimper as she turned her back on me and the table.

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle Daaé," I said sadly.

"Forgive me for crying," she said in a sudden quiet manner.

"There's nothing to apologize for. I cried, too," I confessed.

"Not as much as me," she said disdainfully.

"Yes, I suppose that's true," I said remembering Monsieur de Chagny's words.

"Monsieur, I have not ask but I must ask how did he die?" she asked in pain.

"Ah, Mademoiselle, I'm afraid it's not too clear," I replied.

"Explain."

"Well, he died of natural causes. A broken heart simply sped up the eventual process."

She begin to cry.

"But there are other factors, Mademoiselle. Lack of food, lack of water… He simply refused to eat or drink anything. He was careless with himself and that's the truth. Hardly anything of it is your blame to carry."

"Can people die of a broken heart?" she asked clutching to her chest.

"I do not know, Mademoiselle. I did not believe it before but alas, now upon seeing Erik's case… I have come to believe our hearts can affect our bodies more than our minds. Your heart begins to ache and soon the aching becomes too real. It's quite possible this mental pain can manifest physically. Our bodies are incredible, capable of materializing mental illnesses. I have seen many cases of this strange phenomenon. I can hardly discard the possibility…even less now."

She swallowed hard and looked at me as a child does when he worries he will catch the sickness a doctor describes.

She turned away from me warily and walked to the other side of the room. She sat by the couch and begin to weep quietly. I gave her a few moments for I feared to strain her poor little heart even more.

After roughly fifteen minutes, I pulled myself into the chamber where Erik's body loomed. I went to inspect everything and made sure it was agreeable (as agreeable as it could be) before I let Mlle. Daaé in. I did not wish to her to have another episode after the wine glass incident, so I took precaution that nothing else in this room could alarm her more than she already was.

I exited the room and announced to Mlle. Daae it was safe to enter. She walked towards me somberly. Before her body could enter the room, she panicked and ran off towards the other corner of the house. I went after her and heard her yell out in a frantic state.

"I can't! I can't do it! He's really dead isn't he? You aren't joking! It's not a joke or a dream! He's DEAD!" she cried hysterically.

"Oh, I cannot. I cannot," she repeated in tears as she sat on the floor.

"You don't have to. He has asked too much this time—"

"No, no, no, I must!"

She let a sob and said, "Give me a minute, that's all I ask. I will be brave."

I gave her a minute. And she returned almost miraculously. There was even a sudden strength in her walk.

She entered the room with an uneasy feeling of confidence. As if she knew the walls too well and the person who inhabit them. I knew that she did.

"Monsieur," she said quietly.

I merely pointed to the obvious coffin in the center of the room. She twisted the gold band on her finger, almost hesitating.

"If you want I can—"

"No," she replied. "No."

Then she walked forward three steps but quickly turned around and faced the organ.

"No, no, no, I can't. Please," I heard her cry out.

I realized she was not speaking to me but to herself and I figured it was better to not interrupt her thoughts. I only watched as she bit her lips and swallowed her tears.

She walked once more towards the coffin, now with the ring in her hand instead of on her finger. And when she reached the edge of the coffin's drapes, her face fell on the body that laid there.

To my surprise she did not run or break out in tears, she merely stood there and her face soften. And the saddest of smiles fell on her poor little face…

Forgive me but even as I write this… It's painful to remember. It was such a terrible sight! But what she did next was even more terrible in its own way, I suppose.

She, then, traced her fingers, no, one finger, across the body, until she touched the hand. Then she took it and she, ever so sweetly with her own hands trembling, slipped the gold band on to the ring finger. When it was done she held on to the dead hand and rubbed her thumb over it as if trying to restore warmth. She, then, tenderly placed the hand inside the coffin. When it was done she cried and ran out the room faster than her feet could take her.

I did not stop her.

Erik's instructions had been quite simple in actuality. He had already dug the hole. He told me he had found the "perfect place" ages ago. It was perfect in the way no one would ever find it. So perfectly hidden from man, he said. He had loved it so much that like I said he had dug his own hole. "All you need to do is drop the coffin in there. Just drop me in there and it shall be fine. It'll be done soon," he had told me that very same evening in my house.

Indeed it was an extremely simple task. The place was only less than a mile away from the lake house. And Erik himself elaborated that he had designed the coffin in such a way that it would be light to carry. He even was delighted to share with me that with his weight, the exertion for someone carrying the coffin would be less to none. He still allowed me to bring anyone if I supposed I would need any extra help (although he guaranteed I wouldn't) as long as they swore secrecy to the event. I admit I had originally plan to do so when he had explained his request. But in my hurry and Mlle. Daaé's disposition, I had forgotten all about it. I now only hoped the coffin would be indeed light to carry as he had promised.

When everything was done I begin to contemplate carrying out with the event as soon as possible. His body was in the coffin and I had removed the drapes (as he had instructed me to do so). His masterpiece laid in there with him. All was in order. I just had to simply close the lid shut and it would be over with. Erik in his final bed, at last. But before I did so I had make sure Mlle. Daaé agreed with my decision.

It's amazing how compelled I felt to ask for her permission, for her approval before I carried out the ordeal. Something about the young girl had moved me in terms of her relationship to Erik. There seem to be infinite wisdom and a sensitivity to her eyes that demanded my attention and more so my respect. Out of respect I asked her if she approved of me closing the lid once and for all.

She only looked at me with those glossy blue eyes of her and in sadness sighed. She rose from her grim corner of the room (where she had spent most of our evening crying) and let me lead her to the room. With the red curtains all gone I supposed the room looked more lackluster than morbid. Yet that did not soften the entirety of the affair. She looked into the now-plain coffin.

"Oh, must you bury him with his mask? It's all that caused this trouble anyway," she cried.

Before I could respond, she walked towards the coffin and removed the mask gently from Erik's face. She did not recoil at the sight of his face, but, instead, leaned forward. I looked away.

I believe there are things so private, so incredibly personal that one does not have the right to ask or even witness. I felt the intimacy of that event was not for me to witness.

When I returned my gaze to the two of them, she was pulling away with an inaudible whisper dying on her lips. I could not hear what she said but I assume the dead did.

She did not leave the room running out but rather walked slowly out with the mask firmly on her hands. I closed the lid shut and whispered my own goodbyes to the poor soul.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Mlle. Daaé burning the mask.

She helped me carry the coffin. I insisted she should not but the girl would not listen. So she helped me carry it all the way to spot where he said the hole would be. It was not heavy as he had promised. It was just us. Just us two buried him. Just us two who knew them the most, I suppose.

When we returned the lake house I excused myself to the washroom to get rid of the dirt from the shoveling. It was just me who was dirty, for I had prohibited her to help me in that particular task. She had done enough.

I returned from the washroom to find her wandering about the house in a lethargic state. "It's a pity," I said, "that such a beautiful place will go to waste under here."

Despite it all, it was a lovely house and for it to remain in shadows, well, it seemed unfair. I do admit the house's fate eerily resembled its poor master who had much to give but had to remain in obscurity.

"It's also a pity that the world was robbed of such music," I added thinking about how we had buried the manuscript for Don Juan Triumphant with its composer.

"The world robbed him of much more," she said shaking her head.

I agreed with silence.

"Do you wish to take anything?" I asked.

"Should I?" she replied miserably, "he's with me every minute! I thought he was always me when he was alive. But now! Now even in death there's not a thing in this world that does not remind me of him. Is that silly? Taking a thing… taking a thing from here is useless! I won't think of him any more or less."

I felt sorry for her. I was about to try console her when I remembered the notes I had come upon in Erik's coffin.

"There is one thing," I said carefully and I went into Erik's room. She followed me.

I pulled the papers with the blue ink from the organ and handed it to her.

"Here. I believe this is yours?"

She took the papers and looked at them incredulously.

"Where did you find these?" she said almost in a whisper.

"With him. He had it with him in his coffin. I do not know if he intended to be buried with them. But it had your name so I suppose it was meant for you to keep," I explained.

"These are mine. It's my writing you see," she said holding the papers up to my face.

She traced the musical notes with a finger.

"It's my piece! I composed it. The blue marks are my original work. The red marks…the red marks, oh, Erik must have corrected it because when I first played it sounded awful!"

She then laughed. Her laughter turned into tears.

"It's not sad, Monsieur Daroga! Please don't feel sad! It's funny! Quite funny! Erik would laugh I'm sure! But, look I had to do something in those two weeks I was here! I would have gone mad otherwise. So I asked him to teach me things so I would not be bored. I asked him to teach me to compose and I learned quick, yes? I learned very quickly, I was a marvelous student, he said so himself! I composed this piece rather quickly. It says 'Christine's Song' right there! Look, Monsieur Daroga, look. Of course, it's not in French, it's in Swedish because it was my song, of course. But Erik, Erik probably fixed it while I was gone. It was the least he could do! Because look at those red marks, they're his! Not mine. So in many ways this no longer my work but our work. Then I must change the title, right? I must give him proper credit!"

Before I could object she took the quill from the organ, soaked in red ink and scribbled on the paper the words 'Erik'.

"There! You see? 'Christine's and ERIK'S Song'. Now he will get the recognition he deserves! Surely this incredible work will stand the testament of his love for me. Our love. In many ways, it's not even my piece anymore but our piece. I should take this then! Yes I should, Monsieur, so while it might remind me of Erik, it will also remind me of me. Oh don't cry Monsieur Daroga, it's not worth crying over…it's only music."

She then broke down and fell to the floor, paper in hands and all. And she sobbed so deeply that I shuddered at her cries. Her heavy breathes wrecked my heart as Raoul de Chagny had only described it. I did not leave her alone this time. I held her and cry a little with her as I did.

Our walk back to the surface was not a quiet one. I suspect the event had brought us bit closer and she felt comfortable enough to speak to me and ask me questions. She asked mostly about Erik but now and then she asked me about myself. I also managed to clarify my name was not Daroga but Ismael. She was very embarrassed at the revelation for she had called by the wrong name all this time. I reassured it had been my fault for poorly introducing myself.

She did not bring her song with her. She left it back in the lake house. When I asked her why she had done such a thing when the piece had obviously so much meaning to her, she said it didn't matter. She said that it was only material things.

"What if you wish to listen to the song one day and you can't remember it?" I asked curiously.

"Oh, I could never forget Erik's music," she said truthfully.

When we parted our ways it was already night. I offered to accompany her but she insisted on walking alone. She said that the time with herself would do her much good. I wished her the best for Monsieur de Chagny had shared with me their plans to head North. She only smiled, the first genuine smile that she had bestowed me all night, and wished me the best as well.

"You're a kind man," she said.

"I am only a man, Mademoiselle," I answered in truth.

"What you did today was kind," she argued.

"It was more or less as kind as your deeds today," I said.

She nodded.

"Will you remember him fondly? Despite it all," she asked.

"I will," I said in spite myself.

She smiled and nodded again. She bid me good night and walked into the darkness of the night. There was even a light skip in her walk.

I never saw her again.

And so comes the end of my story. I did get a telegram from Raoul de Chagny when he and Christine arrived North. She sent her regards to me and thanked me for everything. I now only hope for their happiness and pray for their safety.

As for Erik, well he is finally resting where he should be. The girl did return him his ring.

I also, despite myself, often feel he died in vain, in vain of life and love in many ways. But alas, I also feel death freed him. I hope God, for he did believe in such thing, found a place for him in his kingdom and I hope there is music somewhere for him. I believe that's all he would ask. He was a simple man in many ways. A piano, an organ or violin was all he would have ever needed to be satisfied.

As I close this journal, for I burned through my candle and through my pages, I only write what I feel was left in the end. And that is love. Love saved the poor devil's soul, it did. The girl's love redeemed him. And his love for her saved us all. I often feel if the world was different, and perhaps even kinder, things might have ended in a happier way. But alas, it is no use to look at the past or dream of what could have been. We only have now and today. And I only have tonight. I am tired now and must rest. I have written to forget but also to remember.

I shall remember the man in the cellars, with a voice of angel and an incredible ability to love. I shall remember him as fondly as Christine Daaé surely does. I shall…