THE PHANTOM'S FORBIDDEN ARIA: HIS MASK, HER VOICE

Christine Vale had sung one note in the Paris Opera House when the chandeliers went black.

The audience applauded anyway.

A man’s voice moved through the darkness, close enough to feel like breath against her throat.

“Again.”

Christine lifted her chin. “Show yourself.”

“Sing.”

The orchestra began without musicians. Violins trembled in the empty pit. The velvet curtains lifted to reveal a staircase descending beneath the stage.

Christine followed the music down.

At the bottom waited a masked man in a room lined with mirrors. He wore a black half-mask and a ring shaped like a silver rose.

“You are the Phantom,” she said.

“I am the only audience member who has never lied to you.”

“Everyone lies in the dark.”

“Then take off my mask.”

He offered her the ties.

Christine’s fingers touched the ribbon. Beneath it, his pulse raced.

“Do you want me to?”

His answer came quiet. “Yes.”

She did not untie it.

“Not until you tell me why you summoned me.”

The mirrors filled with images of Christine dying on the stage, night after night, while the masked man held a crown made of black roses.

“You are the opera’s last heir,” he said. “Your voice opens the vault beneath the building.”

“And what is in the vault?”

“Your mother’s contract.”

Christine stepped closer. “You knew her?”

“I loved her.”

The Phantom’s mask cracked.

A second voice whispered from the mirrors, “He killed her.”

Christine spun around.

The room had filled with women in white opera gowns, each carrying a candle.

The Phantom seized Christine’s hand. “Do not listen to them.”

“Why?”

“Because they are every woman I have ever failed.”

The candles went out one by one.

When the last flame died, the Phantom removed his mask.

He had Christine’s face.