6 months later
+ @tearsofhxte
‘FORMER DIVA RETURNS TO THE STAGE
After the fiasco of the Palais Garnier, golden soprano Christine Daaé has finally emerged from her long isolation from the public eye. Mademoiselle Daaé --- now Madame, the Vicomtesse de Chagny --- has been remote for months since her marriage to the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny directly after her rumoured scandal with the Opera Garnier’s mysterious Opera Ghost. She is now set to join the Théâtre Lyrique’s new company, opening with a new season of esteemed works...’
Unable to stomach the rest of the article, Erik throws the paper to the side, a twist forming in his chest. It lands squarely by the small settee, the clipping hidden from view.
Six months.
Six months, and still he cannot rid himself of Christine. The home he has built for himself is a mockery of his finest works; he has built palaces, created castles fit for a king, yet is forced to live in a small, provincial residence. Always hiding, never belonging to society. The newspapers he reads drip with her name, informing him of her life, her wedding, her husband...
The memory of her kiss still lingers on his lips. He’s fated to pine after a married woman for the rest of eternity.
It does not mean he hasn’t attempted to restructure his life. Granted, he had not much of a life to begin with, but the Opera House now repulsed him with the lingering memories of all she had done --- all he had done --- and there was no doubt that he would no longer receive his salary. Thus, with reluctance and the meddlesome aid of the Daroga, Erik found himself designing buildings for a meagre pay. It’s pathetic, honestly, but the Daroga refused to let him waste away.
He had avoided the theatre all this time; his muse died along with every hope he had to be with Christine. And yet, knowing she will be returning to the stage with her voice, showing the world what they had moulded and perfected together...
As quick as lightning, Erik makes a grab for the paper and just as rapidly tosses it aside. A glance outside shows him the sun is almost setting, and he hastily moves to don a sharp cloak and hat. In the next moment, the front door slams shut behind him.
The paper faces upwards, the article blaring for all to see.
‘...in the evenings at 7.30pm, showing eight performances a week...’