A/N: Here is a little epilogue to this story...a bit short, but there you have it. About Chapter 9, just to clear things up : Erik was shot straight through the stomach, fell quite a long way off a wall, and got submerged in a fast-running part of the Seine river (and didn't get out again), so I don't think he could be very alive after that. What happened to him was practically impossible to survive…the eyes Christine saw at the end could have just been an owl's or a night animal's…or a ghost's (heh heh heh…). Erik is definitely dead - but there's just that tiny little element of uncertainty in the second-last line that makes you wonder…hmm…I'll leave it to you to decide what Christine really saw. Anyway, thank you to MadLizzy (I'm actually English, not French! I was born in England, grew up in England, and I only moved to France eight years ago (as an extremely reluctant seven-year-old) because of my dad's job (he's an Airbus guy)...But I suppose I didn't really say it in my profile/bio thingy, so it doesn't matter :D…I'm soo so happy you liked it - I thought it went too fast!) and Pertie (Haha, I told you Théodore would make a reappearance ;D! And Erik did die, it's just that it was nice to think that maybe something of him sort of…came back for a few seconds…) for their very early reviews. Humongous thanks also to my other loyal reviewers for all of their encouragement and support!

So, without further ado, here is the epilogue:

In the middle of a forest, long forgotten for years and years, stood an old house. It was an odd house, not like many others, namely because of the aged, weather-worn statues that stood around its tower, backs covered with moss. The gates of the old house were rusty around the hinges, where years of rain had covered the grey-black metal with a fiercely orange crust, and the curling bars of iron were slightly bent, from where the gate had been forced open once long ago. The two high walls that the gate stood between were covered with ivy and other climbing plants, spiders and forest insects making their homes in the gaps between the bricks. This mass of foliage almost completely obscured the bricks from sight, making it look as if the forest itself had gathered and woven its plants and brittle branches into a natural wall that ringed the house. It was an odd sight indeed...

Past the gates was a white path, now overgrown with the tall grass that grew on either side of it, darkened by the plants that had grown between the pebbles. Down the path was the house itself, the years of neglect making it appear ruined already. Some windows had gone, tiles were missing, and wooden planking was rotten through, hanging off the side of the house dismally. Roof tiles lay smashed on the ground from the high winds that had torn them off, and the forest's creepers had begun to invade through the house's gaping windows. Furniture inside the house's rooms were still visible through the windows, untouched and coated in dust and leaves. Only silence and the seasons lived here, each year bringing more dust, longer weeds...On the other side of the house, however, the forest had almost fully taken over. But still stark-white statues rose from the high grasses, their raised arms entangled with climbing plants, throats strangled with ivy. Now, in the months of spring, some of these plants were in bloom, colouring the garden with bright flowers. It was a strange sight, the beautiful, serene statues tangled in the gaiety of nature, looking as if they had simply grown in the garden like the tall weeds. Some statues were lopsided from roots growing beneath them; others lay dead or broken on the ground from violent autumn winds and summer storms. The garden thrived even though the house did not, for the forest was slowly reclaiming its lost territory.

Through the centre of the garden, there was a path of long grass that had been recently flattened by feet. The path led all the way from the house's gates to the back garden, where it wound about amongst the statues before arriving at the small lake, so covered with pond-weed that it was almost indistinguishable from the greenery that surrounded it. However, the dragon's head that reared from the water stood out from the plants around, its grey stone scales green with weed at the base. Glistening frogs sat on the back of its weathered neck, basking in the sun with their throats ballooning gently.

Standing silently watching them, at the very end of the grassy path he had made, was a handsome young man of about eighteen or nineteen, dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, hands in his pockets. His coal-black curls gleamed in the sunlight, and already the sensitive, white skin on the bridge of his nose had begun to redden from being in the sun. His face had always burnt easily, and never lost its stark paleness; his mother had always laughed when he came home sunburnt, saying he looked just like a farmer. The young man's long fingers loosened the top buttons of his shirt, easing the collar from his neck slightly. He had the hands of a musician, a painter, an artist; he had always loved all forms of art and music, and his parents - especially his mother - always praised him whenever he produced a fine piece of work or played a complicated composition on the piano.

Now he had come here, to the hidden garden of statues, to gaze upon the work of his real father...the father he had never known. What talent he saw - what marvel! Beauty surrounded him, a beauty that could not possibly have come from the hands of a man...Although it was sad to see such wonder being claimed by nature, he knew he could not reverse it. This place was better not to be disturbed...the peace here was marvellous, as if he was being welcomed here. The young man stared about him, and then waded through the long grass in a different direction, the startled frogs diving into the lake with soft splashes.

There was one statue Adrien longed to see...one his mother had told him about...she had said it was the spitting image of him as a boy - and probably of his true father, too, in a way. Scratching divertedly at the dry, peeling skin on his nose, Adrien walked on. This would be the last statue he would visit before leaving, for his skin was becoming uncomfortably irritated in this burning sunlight. He gratefully entered the shade of some trees, then peered at the slivers of white he could see through the tall grass. Yes...there ahead of him was a small statue, that could possibly be the one he was looking for...

Adrien's long, thin legs bent as he crouched down and parted the wet grass, feeling the dampness that still remained on the blades from the dew of the cool morning. In front of him, there was indeed a small stone boy, that was reminiscent of himself as a child...uncannily so, in fact. The boy was looking up at the sky that was visible between the tree's branches, just as Adrien's mother had said - and the inscription, too, was there, which made him shiver quite a bit...yet the more he looked, the more he realised that this statue did not seem to entirely fit his mother's nostalgic description. Adrien's clear blue eyes widened and he laughed with surprise as he realised what the difference was:

The statue was smiling.

The End!