The Phantom Of The Opera Is There Inside My Mind || A POTO One Shot ||

-My Secret Admirer-

-My Secret Admirer-

"Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.'" ~ Maud Muller by John Greenleaf Whittier

~*~

Bonjour, salut (good day, hello), to anyone who may be reading this: my thoughts. I cannot guarantee that this, my thoughts and narration of my life, will be all that interesting. I, myself - Symphonie is my name - am not that interesting to begin with. I mean, how interesting is a maid, right? But, if you have nothing else to do and wish to read about my dull existence, that is fine by me, I cannot stop you.

So, what happens in the life of a maid here at the reborn Opéra Populaire? I believe the real question is - what doesn't happen. Too much happens, too much goes on, and most of it isn't note worthy anyways. Truth is, I just began working here at the new Opéra Populaire and I am not all that sure exactly what happens. I have yet to learn the ropes and get through a day without getting yelled at for doing something wrong. Part of that might be because of my wandering mind. "Where does your mind go, Symphonie?" Is a common question from my fellow employees and employers.

It goes many places, my mind. Places far off; places near by...places beneath us...

Oh, why did I choose to come to work at this opera house? It has done nothing but make me melancholy and lonely. I thought it would be exciting to work here, to be here within of the replica of opera house where so much had happened... where he had roamed and ruled. But I was wrong.

How I wished I could have been in the original Opéra Populiare, the one that was burned to the ground. To be in the very building that he lurked, unsure if the next turn in the labyrinth theater would cause me to run into the masked ghost. My skin tingled with excitement at the thought of it.

Ha, there you see how and where my mind wanders like a bored child daydreaming; about to wander off of a cliff. Is it wrong to dream of such a man; a man who was called The Phantom of the Opera? Surely it cannot do any harm. The only harm it causes is harm to my heart. The man is dead. He has been dead for many years; ten years to be exact. If you asked me I might even be able to tell you how many days he has been dead; my obsession runs that far.

You mustn't feel bad, I pity myself as well.

So this is what I think of while I wander the halls of the Opéra Populaire at midnight, after everyone is deep in sleep and oblivious to all that happens in the night. Well, there is one other thing I think of; something that makes my time here almost bearable.

I brought my single red rose up to my nose and smiled into the flower. In the light of the dimly lit gas lamps, I reread what was scrawled onto a plain rectangular envelope:

To My Symphonie

Oh, I apologize, I failed to tell of these notes and these roses. I'm surprised I forgot to tell you about them. They started arriving out of nowhere a few months ago. They appeared on my pillow, on my nightstand, on my windowsill; even in places I worked and did such things as folding laundry and mending costumes. The letters had no name except my own, written in jagged hand similar to that of a child. If it weren't for the educated romantic language of the letters I might have thought that my secret admirer was indeed a child. How silly would that be?

I received another letter this evening. And by "another letter" I don't mean my second or third letter this week or this month. I mean "another letter" by my second or third letter on this day. Where does this man find all of this time to write these letters and deliver them to me?! Or is it a man? Who knows? I giggled at the thought.