Christine de Chagny emerged from a carriage emblazoned with the de Chagny crest. Raoul helped her down by placing two hands at her waist and twirled her in the air before placing her on her feet. She laughed and blushed at his antics, clutching a bouquet of beautiful daisies as her new husband pulled her close and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead.

"Soon," he whispered to her gaily. "Soon we will be on our way to a new place in the world, to start our lives together far away from here."

She beamed back at him, gazing lovingly into his deep blue eyes, running a gloved hand through his golden hair. They pulled each other close in a hug, then Roaul pulled back. He held her hand and pulled her along with him, nearly running to the docks to board their ship.

They slowed as they grew nearer, and Christine marveled at the tall masts, the massive, billowing sails. She had never seen a ship so large. It rocked slowly out in the harbor, the mermaid figurehead beckoning her with open arms pointing to the sky.

Raoul watched Christine's reaction, savoring each morsel of excitement flowing from her as they faced their glorious future.

He led her to the waiting rowboat and helped her to take a seat next to him in the unstable craft. As the rowman took them to the ship, Christine removed one of her gloves and leaned close to the side, trailing her hand through the water.

"I've never been on a boat before, much less a grand ship! Oh thank you, Raoul. This is the perfect way for us to spend our honeymoon." She carefully wrapped an arm around his waist as he snaked an arm around her shoulders, and the couple sat in contented silence until they reached the ship, swaying with the boat as waves lapped gently against the sides.

When they reached the sailing vessel, the rowman stood to catch the ladder that had been tossed over the side and helped the young couple to pull themselves onto it. "Stay well, Monsieur and Madame. May your love remain forever strong!" He chuckled to himself as he rowed away, remembering the first moments he had shared with his own wife.

Two strong arms reached down and helped Christine over the rail of the ship, and she was grateful to once again find her feet on somewhat steady ground. She took a deep breath of salty ocean air and looked back for Raoul, who soon emerged over the railing, climbing gracefully over. He walked to her and placed a sweet kiss on her lips. In response, the sailors to whistled and made lewd catcalls. The couple blushed and broke from one another, keeping their hands intertwined as they approached the captain.

"Ah, le Vicomte de Chagny. It is an honor to have you and your lovely bride join us for this journey," the captain said, bowing deeply. He was clearly a gentleman and a man of honor. The many military pins on his lapel shone in the sunlight, and his manner was that of the respectful soldier. "May our journey be swift and without incident!"

"Hear hear," returned Raoul, who grinned and offered the captain his hand to shake.

"Madame," a small voice said from somewhere around her waist. She looked down to see a slightly dirty cabin boy holding her bags. "May I show you to your rooms?"

She smiled down at him, gently ruffing his dirty hair and laughing at the rain of soot that fell from it. "Certainly. What were you doing today young one, cleaning chimneys?"

The little boy grinned cheekily, but did not provide an answer. As he led her away, she waved back to Raoul, not wanting to leave him for a moment, but desperate to remove her wide brimmed hat and feel the wind through her unbound hair.

The compartments were small, but clean and well laid out. There was a small table at which they could sit, and a comfortable looking bed. She blushed when she noticed its size - a perfectly cozy fit for two.

The boy placed her bags at the end of the bed, then turned to her with his palm extended, expecting a tip. She placed a copper in it, and he ran out of the room.

Christine walked through the rooms, running her hands over the beautifully carved wooden furniture, noticing that every single piece was bolted in place. She thought of the gentle rocking of the ship, imaging how it would be in a bad storm. A good thing then, she thought, they had the foresight to nail it all down!

She walked through a narrow door on the wall to her left which presumably led to a closet, but found herself in another room entirely. A small sitting room, decorated decadently. She suddenly felt a presence, but a glance around the room confirmed she was alone.

The walls were lined with books, held in place by lengths of wood that could be shifted to allow them to be removed. A small brazier burned in the corner, but otherwise no light graced this room. There were no windows.

In the middle of the room, there was a high-backed, winged chair, flanked by a small table covered in a scarlet, velvet cover. When she saw what sat upon it, she balked and covered her face with her hand.

It was a musical score. It was Don Juan, and across it lay a red rose, its thorns stripped, a black ribbon tied around the stem.

She ran from the room, slammed the door shut, and fainted on the bed.

Rain pattered gently against the windowsill of the room of the former Vicomtesse de Chagny. A fire burned low in the huge, marble fireplace. The glorious centerpiece of the room. No other source of light could be found.

The wooden floors were covered in fine Persian rugs, kept meticulously clean by the de Chagny household staff. The room was fitted with a beautiful ivory colored vanity, which sat empty and unused. The massive wardrobe was filled with only a few nightgowns.

In this grand room, the only personal possession clearly visible was the violin. Her father's violin, displayed proudly on a table near her bed.

Christine stared at it, lying prone on the bed, letting one arm dangle from the side, her fingertips just barely grazing the carpet. She let it swing just enough to be sure that she was still alive, to be sure her blood still pumped in her veins, painfully tearing through her broken heart.

She had been dreaming of her honeymoon, the start of her honeymoon. The moment she realized she could never be free of her phantom. Or was he an angel?

She had searched the wall in the ship, her fingers scrabbling desperately to find the entrance to the room, to show Raoul what she had found. The book, the rose. He was there!

But she could not find anything. There were no keyholes, no handles, no hidden seams. It was just a wall.

Raoul humored her paranoia about an attached room for a few days, but soon grew annoyed when she made it clear that she would not feel comfortable consummating their relationship after what she had seen. What if he was watching? What if he saw them?

After they had landed, Christine finally felt comfortable enough to put her fears to rest, and gave herself to Raoul fully that night in their hotel room. She had enjoyed their interaction, but felt unfulfilled afterwards. Still, she loved her Raoul and was just happy to please him, finally, as his wife.

The next morning, Christine woke early too restless to remain in bed. She descended to breakfast while Raoul slept, and on the table she was led to in the dining room there was a red rose. Its thorns stripped. A black ribbon tied around the stem. She picked it up, determined not to be called a fool, and raced back to her hotel room.

When she had woken Roul, he was upset. She had held out her hand to show him the rose, but instead she held a daisy. The same kind of daisy that Raoul had given her before their departure. She stared at it incredulously and sank into a chair in the room. She had been so afraid, so confused. How was he doing this? Or was it all in her mind?

The rest of the honeymoon had passed uneventfully, though Christine found it difficult to continue to engage in relations with Raoul. Every time she did, a rose appeared for her. He knew, her phantom, he was with them, but she could never prove to Raoul what she was seeing, and his annoyance grew with her.

By the time they had returned to Paris, their relationship was strained. They put on a good show for his family and for the Parisian elite, but at home she could not hide her fear, and he could not help but feel his annoyance growing towards her. She was safe! The phantom was dead. How could she be unhappy in their new life?

Though they met together every night as man and wife for three months, Christine did not get pregnant. The de Chagny family was growing impatient for an heir, and the mounting pressure pushed Christine to the brink of insanity. Each morning, a red rose tied with a black ribbon appeared on the windowsill in her room, disappearing the next time she went to look for it. She was too afraid to ever open her window out of fear that he would find his way in.

After two years of trying with Raoul, with no results, Christine was declared barren. The de Chagny family shunned her, and Raoul grew as cold to her as he was affectionate to other women at the many parties and balls they attended.

She lost weight, her skin hanging baggily on her tiny, diminished form. Before long, she took ill. Her lack of care for herself, the constant fear and the pressure had finally worn her down.

After that, she was sent away. Though it was known that she was still alive, Raoul was allowed to annul the marriage, due to her barren womb, and find a new wife. A beautiful, noble wife who bore him five sons and three daughters. The de Chagny clan was ecstatic.

Christine was broken. Raoul, out of respect for their long friendship and now cold, neglected love, kept her in a little-used country home owned by the family. She was comfortable, fed, and clothed. She hated the charity, but knew not what else she could do with herself.

She remained primarily inside, speaking little if any, and never singing. The roses stopped. Even the phantom had abandoned her. But then the roses returned, appearing weekly at least, sometimes daily. Along with books, sheet music, other small trinkets.

She never accepted these gifts, but was happy when she saw them. With the space of years between her and that fateful night of the opera fire, she recalled her long friendship with her Angel of Music and thought of him with sorrowful remorse. A man, she knew now, who had been her friend and support after the death of her father. Who had taught her how to become a part of music, how to open her soul and let it flow with the heat of her deepest passion. How desperately she wanted to sing, but each time she took in a breath to raise her voice, it died in her throat.

After ten years of seclusion, Christine had taken fatally ill. She had refused a fire, and with her poor nutrition and the cold she contracted pneumonia, which now caused her lungs to rattle terribly. The staff had finally convinced her of a fire and a doctor, but it was too late. She was nearly gone; she could feel it.

A small sound at the window pulled her out of her reverie. She mustered all of what was left of her feeble strength, and pushed herself up from the bed, coughing terribly as she rose. Her body shook from the chill in the room, but she pushed forward, coughing and wheezing with every step.

When she reached the window, she leaned heavily on the sill. She glanced over the moonlit grounds, feeling a stranger to them though she had lived here for a decade. They were not hers; they were his. Raoul's. His wife's, his children's. She was but a temporary ward.

On the ledge outside the window, she noticed a rose. Not the customary red rose, but a white rose, its thorns in tact and a red ribbon tied around the stem. Something in the ribbon gleamed.

She looked out into the darkness and pressed a hand against the window. I should have let you take me, she thought, I should have stayed with you. You were my one true friend, my one companion. Of course my rejection drove you mad, for I was everything to you.

I am sorry.

With tears rolling down her cheeks, Christine released the latch on the window and opened it, careful not to send the rose cascading to the ground as it swung outward.

She grasped the rose tightly, gripping it in her thin, bony hands. The thorns bit into her skin, and she smiled at the sensation of pain. She had not felt real, tactile, prickling pain in so long.

She sank to the floor and carefully untied the ribbon, letting the shiny metal fall into her hand. It was the ring. The ring her Angel had given her so long ago. She slipped it on to her bony finger and formed a tight fist to keep it from slipping off.

A sob escaped her lips and she let the rose fall to the ground, covering her face with her hands. She smelled the ribbon still clutched in her hand, recognizing the familiar, musky scent of her phantom. Of her Angel.

Slowly, she crawled back to her bed, her fisted hand chafing against the decadent rugs. With the last of her strength, she pulled herself up onto the mattress and curled into a ball, cradling the hand that bore the ring close to her heart.

"I am ready," she said aloud. "I am ready, finally, to die."

With that, the fire in the fireplace extinguished and all light slid from the room. She was in total darkness.

"Come little one," a voice rasped in her ear, "follow me to paradise."

The Angel of Death hovered close over the diminished body of Christine Daaé. Though only thirty years old, her face was pale and drawn. She could have passed for a woman twenty years her elder. The girl was curled into a ball, holding her left hand protectively to her chest. Her breath rattled, and it could smell the death clinging to her. It reached a scaly hand to brush a ratted curl from Christine's thin face and gently pulled her hand from the shelter of her body.

The ring that shone there awoke an odd pain within the angel, a familiar and beautiful pain. Erik it breathed in a language not of earth. It knew this man, the beautiful pain he suffered as he suffocated in the throes of his love. Death had found him on many occasions since his youth, sure that this time would be the last, but always he pulled away from death, as if desperate to stay alive for something else. Something beyond his own life.

Death had spent days basking in his pain, waiting for him to finally release his grip on life, but it never came. Now it seemed the reason he clung to life so desperately was laid out and ready to die, clutching this object of his love close to her heart.

"Will you take me now," Christine asked softly, already feeling the pain of living starting to melt away. Death hesitated. Erik would not live through this, his would be the next soul to harvest. He would be ready.

But after so many years, after so much pain, Death was not ready for him.

"No," it whispered in a gravelly voice.

Christine's brow furrowed in confusion. "But, but you said, paradise. I must go there; I must wait for him, for only in death can we return to one another."

"No," Death whispered again forcefully. "I am sending you back. Both of you."

"But why?" she cried desperately. "I cannot relive this life," her voice broke, imagining finding herself here again. Living another thirty horrible years, again rejecting the man who she truly loved out of fear.

"You will not. You will live your own life, but that of another."

Again, Christine could not hide her confusion. "How, what do you mean?"

"I am sending you back to the Opéra Populaire. You must try again. You must try again to make him happy."

"But how?" she cried desperately. "I won't remember, I won't know not to fear him! I will run! Please, take me away from this life!"

"No," Death rasped again. "You will know your mind, but live the life of another. Do not waste it."

With that, Christine's vision grew dim.

"No," she whispered, fighting the darkness. "No, no, no..."