The peaceful ticking of an antique clock filled the dressing room where you were sitting after your next performance, thoughtfully, with a little bitterness looking at a light scarf, long lost, but brought back many years later by your first, childish and pure love, which you never forgot, but now everything was much more complicated.

You were supposed to sing just for him. He is the one who gave you back a taste for life after your father's death, he is the one who did everything for you, he is the one whose voice you heard even when there was dead silence everywhere. They were afraid of him, but they talked about him every time something terrible or strange happened at the opera, always in a whisper, so as not to invite even more troubles. The Phantom of the Opera, your personal Angel of Music, was with you every step of the way, even though you called him exclusively by his name, which no one but you knew.

The secret passages in the opera gave Vergil freedom of movement, while you felt like a real bird in a cage. You are young, ambitious and extremely talented according to his words, which he whispers to you every time you find yourself alone. Remembering the native face of an old acquaintance, you are gnawed by a feeling of guilt and slight fear, realizing that you will not be able to accept his love anymore.

He's here again, he doesn't leave you for a second. The white mask on his face attracts the eye more than an unexpected gift, as if hypnotizing. The voice envelops you from all sides, sounds so loud in your head that even an orchestra could not compare with it.

“Let me interrupt your thoughts, my angel. You were great. But is it worth thinking about something less significant than your triumph?”