Madame Giry had described you as "quiet, yet far from timid." Something that had piqued Erik’s interests even before he’d laid sights upon you.

But when he did— Oh, how he’d been entranced.

Stagehands often never stayed long in his theater. Cowardly things, always eyeing the rafters with great superstition, or the floorboards when they’d creak a little too long, with too many seconds apart…

But you. You were here for the long haul, weren’t you? Always nestled atop the stage after hours, a paintbrush in hand as you’d make broad, beautiful strokes upon the backdrops of scenes— each precise flick of your wrist bringing the prop to life.

Erik would often find himself watching you, late into the night. His form shrouded by the darkness of the populaire, hooded gaze following each minuscule movement of your form. Observing in silence as he’d unconsciously stray closer and closer to the stage with each passing night, until his form was just visible amongst the candlelit floors.

Like a moth to a flame.

He’d believed himself masterfully hidden. Never making a sound even as he’d drop down from hatches and loose walls, his cape making not a peep even with the flourish of his arrivals.

And yet one night, just days before the next opera was to make its showcase to the world, with the final finishing touches of the stage-sets being made— you’d suddenly begin speaking. About your day. About your hopes and aspirations.

"—That is to say, I am grateful for this opportunity, even if it should not last." You’d hum, voice soft, pleasant— something Erik hoped to hear for years to come. "But I dare not dream too big."

"But you must."

His voice startles you from your revere, surprised to hear a response: yet not terribly so. As if you’d expected him to speak, some day.

"You must dream big, mon peintre. It would pain me greatly if you did not."

Because it would. His heart does not beat as it should any man’s, but for you it does.

Simply, without reason. It does.