I was sitting quite alone in my little office on the day Juliette de Chagny first visited me.

She fluttered into my office (quite unannounced) on a sunny afternoon in February. I had looked up from my papers, aiming on being cross with this sudden interruption, but found myself unable to speak as I gazed upon her. I thought in that moment that the Christine Daaé I'd gained my fame in writing upon had manifested in my small office. She certainly fit the description of the woman I'd had dedicated the better part of a year writing about. Though I knew very soon that it was impossible for this woman to be her. Christine Daaé would be nearing fifty at the time this woman appeared. This woman seemed no older than thirty.

I stood, "Mademoiselle. Can I help you?"

In truth, I would not normally acknowledge such a random guest in this way. My little book, The Phantom of the Opera, has gained much esteem in Paris and I was often swarmed with fans who wanted more of the tale of this Opera Ghost. They'd come to my office in guises and ruse, only to beg me for more words of their tragic hero and forlorn heroine. I'd tell them there was nothing more to be said upon it, though they never wanted to believe me.

'How could Christine not love him?' The women of society wailed at me whilst their husbands scoffed.

'The man was a lunatic!' Spoke one.

'A genius, truly. And he lived!'

They'd say such things to me and stare at me like I were some prophet. I merely recited the facts. I knew no more than any of them, though of course I wished it were not so. I wished too to learn more about this ghost as his obsession, but found all information after to be increasingly sparse. After thorough research, I found that the Viscountess de Chagny gained great acclaim in the London Opera but had not been heard from in many years. She and the Viscount had three daughters and a son, all of which had names I'd forgotten and stories not written. Erik most certainly had died in his Opera house. There was nothing more to tell.

When this woman appeared who looked so much like Christine, I could not breathe. I would have thrown any other out of my office, for my office was my own domain. Thought as I stood with this specter in front of me, I found myself incapable of anything but manners.

She bowed her head, "Monsieur Leroux." I noticed then the other details about her. Her deep blue gown that reeked of her station and the long white gloves upon her hands. A hat-blue adored with white and black-rested upon pristine golden curls. Eyes lighter than a fair summer sky stared at me from beneath the hat's rim.

Besides her beauty, the most noticeable item was the leather bound notebook clutched in her hands.

"Please forgive my intrusion, sir, for I know you must be working." Her voice was as light and melodious as a lark. "Your secretary said I must come in once I had given my name." Like I'd written her myself in one of my detective stories, she slowly pulled out her hat pin and took off the deep blue hat. Those perfect eyes met mine again intently.

She began, "My name is Juliette de Chagny, eldest daughter of Raoul and Christine de Chagny."

I felt my hand grip the table tighter. The young aristocrat must have noticed it, for an elfish smile played upon her lips.

"I have read your book, sir, and found it to be most excellent. Thoroughly researched and very true. My mother and father spoke little of those times, you see, so it was good to know it all."

The woman shifted and I offered that she sit in the chair across from mine. I had no doubt of the truth of her words, for she was too like the woman I had written upon to be anything but. Juliette de Changy took a chair in my meager office and I returned to my own. In the notebook in front of me, I flipped to a new page.

"Though, sir, I must tell you that you that the ending you gave was not wholly complete."

I looked back to her and she flushed. Eagerly, she lifted the leather bound book and set it upon my desk. Her hands did not leave it.

"Monsieur Erik did not die upon that night in the tunnels, nor any night soon after." She looked to me for my expression. "I know, for I met him. I know for I…" I watched as she clutched the book, seeming to bring it nearer to herself.

She exhaled, "I have not seen my mother for many years. I've been in America, but came back recently to visit my sister, Adele, in London for she is having a child. Whilst there, I returned to my old family home and found this." Once again Lady Juliette held tightly to the book though she would not name it. "My mother's diary."

With that she unlaced it, opening it open with a croaking spine. I tried to steal a glance at the penmanship of this woman I'd written about, but the woman was quick to bring it her chest.

"Newspaper clippings and other things too. And I knew I must bring it to someone after I had read it." Once again, her eyes met mine. "I had read your book, sir, and thought you an honest man. A trustworthy narrator."

She looked at me like I was supposed to respond. I was about to when she spoke again.

"I have not seen mother in many years, as I've said, so I don't know how she would feel about this. But after your book, I think the world must truly know what became of Christine, Raoul, and Erik after that awful night in the catacombs."

"Yes," I answered ardently. Some great warmth was rising in my chest at the prospect. I could not hide that I was just as curious as my readers. There was nothing to be learned of the de Chagnys after that night. Save the names of their children and where the Countess sang. I found this Juliette to be truthful, for all she had said were facts of my research. Facts the general public were not privy to know.

I spoke again, "Yes, Mademoiselle. I would be happy to record if you let me."

A smile, "I shall not relinquish this, I am afraid. I find your writing to be honest, sir, but you'll forgive me if I wait to form my own opinion on whether you are." Once again, she drew the journal inward. "I shall not be returning to America until Adele has delivered and settled. I thought I might come by your office and read to you. I could add my own story in as well, what my father told me too. I know the order of these clippings and the details of the story." A hesitation, "If you should like me to, that is, sir."

"It would be an honor, Mademoiselle." I spoke and the woman rose once again. With a slight of her hand, the hat was back upon her head and her pin pushed in. Another elfish smile grew on her lips.

"I shall return tomorrow then, sir, if that is agreeable with you." She clutched the book. "Whatever hour bests suits you."

"Your earliest convience, Mademoiselle."

She thought. "Let's say one in the afternoon. That should do nicely for me, sir."

"Wonderful, Mademoiselle." I stepped out from behind my desk, her blue eyes fixed upon me. She looked so very much like the woman I'd written upon that a chill crept upon my spine. A strange and starting chill, like this woman might be more specter than reality. A feeling I dismissed immediately as an author's imagination.

She nodded, "Thank you, sir. I shall see you tomorrow."