Whisper In My Ear, Chapter 1.

Paris.

A flourishing metropolis, blooming on the surface of the planet like an enormous rafflesia flower. It is fascinating, ravishing, but it emits a thick scent that alludes to parasitization, to cruel evisceration of the lands around it and the soils beneath it and of people who live in it and of which this modern Babylon consists.

It is an incredibly complex structure, that is stable but so imperfect that it can collapse at any moment, given a push in the right place at the right time, created and cultivated to its nowadays glory by an omnipresent civilization.

It is a place of unparalleled beauty, of rich, ancient history and of horrors that lurk in the shadows of looming skyscrapers and dilapidated intricate architecture of the royal era.

Paris thrives on its horrors. It cannot exist without them, just like good cannot exist without evil, just like light cannot exist without darkness. It is all about contrast, stark and drastic, and this contrast is seen everywhere: policemen arresting criminals, journalists calling out corrupt government members, historians uncovering old, dark secrets of the town, normal people reporting unusual behaviour next door. This contrast is relished, it is presented on a golden pedestal like a prized jewel, it is worshipped, it is loved, this difference between white and black that is akin to the eternal battle between life and death. Inequality is what ensures stability and safety in this society; thus, equality, when the colours shift and intermingle, turning everything into a shade of gray, is a synonym for destruction, a signal for the chaos to begin its reign.

For now, however, the peace and tranquility are preserved; the system keeps working, and its elements, the little people, still live their little lives and stick to their usual routines. And among all the chaos and peace, the present and the past collide in the Palais Garnier, the most marvelous of Opera Houses, which had seen the most sublime of dances and heard the most ethereal of voices within its walls and which represents the majestic beauty of the human mind. The building is beautiful in the intricacy of its floral ornaments and the intimacy of its foyers. The enhanced atmosphere conversates with a human soul, making it soak it up, taking away all the worry, leaving only awe in its wake.

It is September now, and the Opera Populaire stands tall and steady in the wake of an evening storm that is beginning to overtake the whole Paris. In its dressing rooms and backstage corridors, ballerinas, singers and stagehands run back and forth in a desperate rush of preparation for the last performance of the day.

That night, la Carlotta, the famous star of Paris, takes the stage once more and astonishes her public again with the unparalleled force of her voice and her fierce, unfaltering vibrato.

After the last curtain call, a lone singer rushed through the horde of opera workers. She was shoved from side to side as she tried to move against the unforgiving torrent of people, trying to squeeze through the mindless corpses of her colleagues and patrons that hastened to congratulate the performers with a successful closing night.

Christine Daaé didn't feel like she belonged there.

The last push - and finally, finally, she was on the bustling street, inhaling fresh, chill air, smelling traffic fumes and wet asphalt. Wasting a few moments only to regain her breath, she turned around and began walking alongside the Opera building's outer wall.

A few steps, and she felt hot tears burn her cheeks. She hastily moved her hand to wipe them, but they kept running, and, at last, she gave up any pretense of being fine. She would never be good enough to be a lead singer. It was a miracle that she had been able to secure herself a place in the chorus. She was crying openly, sucking in air through gritted teeth. She felt passersby's concerned gazes on her, and hastened her step.

On the go, she fumbled through her belongings in her bag, searching for her wireless headphones. Music always calmed her down. It was her only true friend in this world. It would never give her up.

She let out a breath when her fingertips brushed the familiar smooth surface, and her fingers immediately wrapped around the band and fished the headphones out. She hurriedly put them on and reached for her phone to turn on Bluetooth and shuffle through her playlist while she walked to the nearest subway station.

She could care less about the world around her, the neverending traffic and the torrents of people. She would go with the flow and rely on it to lead her to where she was supposed to be.

She mechanically paid for the subway pass, went down the escalator and sat on a train. There were so many people that she was pushed from all sides and couldn't see the exits - so she lifted her headphones sometimes to listen to the stations announcements, and she frequently looked behind her to see if anyone reached for her bag.

She felt paranoid in such large crowds.

A twenty-minute ride, and she exited the subway on the Courcelles station, promptly crossed the street and headed for the modern-looking building with the shining words "Clinique Internationale du Parc Monceau" etched into the signboard.

"I am a visitor," she murmured to the tired receptionist, and the woman gave her the pass and waved her hand to the elevators that would get her to the maze of familiar corridors. The walls remained the same, even though the people were different each time she visited this place; Christine clutched at her shirtfront in a feeble attempt to lessen the pain in her chest.

She hated it. She hated how she needed to look up at the signs to find the directions to the therapy wing, even though she must have remembered the way by now, how she needed to anxiously look around the sterile premises in search for the ward with the necessary number, and how her heart thumped faster and fasted against her ribcage in frightful anticipation of what was awaiting her in the end of this emotionally taxing journey.

The plastic white door creaked open, and there he was, on one of the few beds in that chamber, her father, pale and dreadfully thin; his once round jaw was sharp, his once full cheeks hollow, and his once lively, sparkling eyes set deep in their sockets, closed in blissful sleep. His arm was outstretched, with the catheter inserted into one of his protruding veins.

She didn't bring the flowers today; after all, she had been there yesterday, too, and the day before that, and the day before that, and brought fresh blooms each time the old ones withered away under the merciless onslaught of the revolting stench of disease.

And now the fresh chamomiles she had brought two days before were winking at her from their place in a small vase.

She cupped his face, feeling the bristle on his concave cheeks; she kissed his forehead that was streaked with wrinkles; she smiled for the first time during that day and whispered, "I am here, Pappa. Your Little Lotte is here."

His eyes slowly opened; it took a few seconds for them to focus on her face, and she felt tears burn the back of her throat.

"Christine…" mumbled he, a weak smile tugging on his withered lips. His bony, freckled hand twitched in her direction, and she took it in her warm, soft palms, passing her thumb over the calloused fingers.

"Jag är här, Pappa," she murmured in their native tongue, tears blurring her vision. I am here, Pappa.

"Du bör inte att komma hit varje dag," her father whispered.

You shouldn't be coming here every day.

You have a life, Christine. You must live and be happy. Don't worry about your father so much. She's heard it all, countless times again and again, from the lips of her dying father.

His death was imminent, that much was obvious. Even if they had somehow acquired enough money to be able to secure an immediate operation, he couldn't have been saved.

Cancer is a diagnosis that for most people of their station results in death.

"Jag vet, Pappa. Jag vill se dig oftare. Jag vill vara med dig medan vi fortfarande har tid..."

I know, Pappa. I want to see you more often. I want to be with you while we still have time.

The elder Daaé smiled and closed his eyes.

Christine clasped his hand closer. "Har du smärta?"

His bleak eyes opened and looked through her. Are you in pain?

"Nej, nej," he told her. "Läkarna gjorde säker på."

No, no. The doctors made sure of that.

"Låt oss lyssna på musik, min Lilla Lotte," he offered after a minute of silence.

Christine wiped at her cheek. Let us listen to music, my Little Lotte.

"Läkarna säger du behöver vila..." she whispered. The doctors say you need rest.

"Vila bli fördömd," he grumbled. "Jag vill lyssna på musik. Vänligen, Christine..."

Rest be damned. I want to listen to music. Please, Christine.

She sighed and fished her headphones and her phone out of her bag. "Vilken?" she asked as she put the headphones on his head and adjusted them — there were other people in this ward, sleeping. The nurse would kill her if she found out.

Which one?

"Andra konserten... av Tjajkovskij." The great violinist smiled and closed his eyes.

Christine wiped the tears from her eyes and clicked on the necessary entry. The second concerto… by Tchaikovsky. His favourite.

His face looked almost younger when he listened to music - so relaxed, with an expression of bliss on his features. If only music could heal! He would have been the healthiest man in the universe…

She waited patiently, watching him with a teary smile; she waited all thirteen minutes the concerto was playing and stayed silent after it ended. Only then she carefully extended her hands towards him and took the headphones off his head.

"Mere?" she asked with a smile. More?

And she sat there with her father, listening to music and talking, for hours and hours on end as the time ticked by unnoticed, forgotten.

Taking the headphones off his head yet another time, she placed a kiss on his forehead.

He didn't react.

For a moment her heart sank in a dreadful thought that he has...

But the fate was merciful... for now. His breath was calm and even, and a small smile played on his lips.

He was fast asleep.

She leaned away from him and felt her breath hitch. She must go now.

She quietly put her belongings back into her bag, stood up and left the chamber with a quick nod to the nurse that was wrapping up her roundabout of the wing to serve the medicines.

Mamma Valerius greeted Christine in the doorway upon her return home. The elderly woman enveloped her in a warm, soft hug, a hug that smelled of apples and cinnamon and home.

"My child, were you visiting your father again?" she asked as she rushed Christine into the small apartment. "I was waiting for you. Let me heat up the food."

Christine shrugged off her smudged coat and hung it onto a rack by her red scarf. "I'm sorry, Mamma," she apologized sheepishly.

But Mamma Valerius had already disappeared into the kitchen.

With a sigh Christine trailed to her small room. She'd forgotten it was the anniversary of the Professor's death. She'd forgotten that Mamma had been waiting for her to go to visit the Professor's grave together.

She felt guilty.

Neither of the women could look each other in the eye, sitting at the table in the small, cramped kitchen. Christine picked at her food, trying to find the courage to say something. Anything.

"Mamma, I'm- I'm sorry-" she began, but the elderly woman interrupted her with a wave of her wrinkled hand.

"No need to apologize, Christine. Indeed, the living are more important than the dead. You should visit your father as much as possible while you two still have time."

Christine winced.

Mamma Valerius was looking at the kitchen wall to her side. "...I've visited the cemetery without you. You shouldn't worry, child."

Christine looked down at her supper, unable to hold the tears anymore.

Mamma's eyes widened behind her thick reading glasses as Christine dropped her fork and hid her face in her palms, shedding bitter tears of sorrow.

The elderly woman rushed to her protegée to try and calm her, but Christine merely shook her head and wept harder.

The pain she felt was almost physical.