Chapter Text
London, 1873.
The former Phantom of the Opera has built a new life for himself here. Erik wanted to turn away from the music that had broken his heart. He had only one way to get over it, he turned to another of his talents.
As an architect, he was highly respected, even though hardly anyone knew him personally. His building plans were flawless, his designs thoughtful and innovative. He knew how to capture light and shadow in his buildings in such a way that they were almost magical. His clients were nobles, wealthy businessmen and sometimes even royalty - people who demanded splendor, elegance, structures that would stand the test of time. And Erik gave them just that.
His current project was one of the most ambitious: a magnificent townhouse for an influential lord, directly opposite the Royal Opera House. The irony of this location did not escape him. Every day when he entered the construction site, his gaze fell on the mighty opera building, and each time he felt that slight pang in his chest.
The townhouse was to be an architectural masterpiece – high ceilings, elaborately curved staircases, windows designed to perfectly capture the daylight. But Erik had unconsciously given himself away: the great hall on the ground floor had acoustics that were perfect for music. He knew it, had noticed it when he went through the plans. His construction manager had even mentioned it:
"If you ask me, sir, this hall could serve as a concert hall. Voices resonate beautifully here."
Erik had not let on how this comment triggered in him.
"The master of the house does not play an instrument," he had replied curtly, changing the subject.
But it was true – no matter how much he turned away from music, it followed him in his work. The way he constructed arches, the way he arranged walls, the way he designed rooms – everything was permeated by his deep understanding of sound and harmony.
He sighed and stepped to the edge of the construction site from where he could view the opera. The lights were already on, a sign that the evening performance was about to begin. He could almost feel the crowds thronging the magnificent halls, the murmur of expectant voices, the rustle of dresses, the quiet hum of voices before the curtain rose.
He turned around quickly. No. He must not sink into memories.
Just as he was about to head home, a side door of the opera opened and a young woman stepped out. She wore simple clothes, a simple dress with an apron over it, and balanced a stack of freshly cleaned costumes in her arms. A wardrobe attendant, no doubt.
She was in a hurry, or so it seemed, but as she walked she hummed a tune softly.
Erik froze.
The notes were soft, unforced, a song he didn't know - and yet it captivated him. Her voice was untrained but pure, like a hidden jewel that had yet to be polished.
Something stirred inside him, an impulse that he immediately fought down.
He turned around, his coat blowing gently in the wind as he disappeared into the darkness.
He had nothing to do with music anymore. And he wouldn't allow himself to be any other way.