|| Christine Daae ||
Paris was a lot different than I remembered it.
For one, people were paranoid about the Phantom, if he was even there, and I wasn't even in the Opera House yet.
I looked at the newspaper article again. I had held it so firmly and so often that the edges had softened and were starting to tear. The ink was fading, too.
The Distortional Devil: Real at Last?
For years, rumors of a Phantom of the Opera ran amok in the famous Opera Populaire seemed simply that; a rumor.
Now, maybe they're true.
Once again, the rumor has resurfaced as the recently burned Opera House has been completely repaired with a red rose and a chandelier that's all too familiar with the public of Paris.
One final question remains: will the Phantom be friendly, or use his Punjab Lasso as an excuse for divas and sopranos?
More on this subject on Page 12.
I had read page 12 too many times. All it was was a list of Erik's faults...
Oh, Erik...
The man I loved- could he be dead?
That's what I had believed for these past few months, but I had came all the way from New York this time...
Was it all in vain?
|| Unknown ||
She was dead.
My Christine was dead.
Lost and gone...
Lost and gone...
The day starts.
The day ends.
Time crawls by.
My Christine, dead on the floor?
The moments creep,
But I can't bear to sleep,
Knowing I won't hear you sing.
And weeks pass
And months pass-
Has she died?
Can't she just walk through my door?
And hold me close,
And then just at most,
I could hear her sing once more.
And sometimes, at night times,
I dream that she is there,
but wake holding nothing but the empty air...
And tears come
And tears go.
Eyes grow dry.
Still I ache down to the core.
My broken soul
Can't be alive or whole,
Til I see her wings once more.
And Angel, my Angel,
Has gone behind a veil?
I pray, just to hear her voice,
To no prevail!
