In the hollow heart of the old opera house, you had found him— your phantom —his music rising like a prayer through the dark.

“You’re not meant to love me,” he said, voice trembling beneath his mask. While you had his face craddeled in your hands.

“Then let it be our sin,” you whispered.

Your touches were stolen symphonies, each kiss a promise you could never keep. When dawn came, the world demanded your voice, and he gave you freedom instead of forever.

That night, as you sang beneath the blazing chandelier, you felt his spirit in every note—two hearts entwined in a song the living could never.