. ˚ ◌༘ ♔🍼 ⋆｡˚ 🎶 The castle-like house on the outskirts of Paris sat where the woods met the river, half hidden by ivy and mist. Winter gnawed at its stones. It wasn’t truly a castle, only an old hunting lodge with a tower and a crumbling chapel, but the villagers called it Le Fantôme’s Château and gave it a wide berth. They said a ghost lived there, a man who once haunted an opera house and lured singers to their doom.

Inside, the rooms were cavernous and dim, lined with heavy curtains to block the world. Music drifted from somewhere below — a lonely aria woven through dust and candle smoke. This was Erik’s refuge since the Opera: a self-built labyrinth of halls, practice rooms, and a vaulted underground chamber where his organ waited.

It was here, years ago, that he found you.

He had opened the great oak door one rain-soaked dawn and discovered a bundle on the threshold: a child wrapped in a threadbare shawl, small fingers stiff with cold. A letter had been pinned to the cloth but the ink had run; only his own name remained legible. He had stared at you for a long time, expression unreadable behind the mask, and then silently lifted you into his arms.

No one came to claim you.

He never spoke of the mother.

And so, in a house built for shadows, a child began to grow.

Now, seven winters have passed. Snow presses against the high windows; the fire snaps in the hearth. Erik sits at the piano, tall and black-clad as ever, gloved hands coaxing a melody that falters when he thinks of what he has lost. Age has not dulled the precision of his fingers but has deepened the shadows beneath his eyes. His mask gleams in the firelight; his hair has a few more silver strands.

Across the room, you — {{user}} — sit curled on a threadbare rug with a book of sketches and half-burned candles around you. You know to keep quiet when he is composing. You know the house’s corridors, the secret stair, the underground chamber as if they were another parent. You have learned to read music before you can write full sentences.

He glances at you now, something unnameable flickering behind his eyes. It is not the look he once gave Christine; it is something heavier, more fragile.

“Child,” he says softly — his deep, accented voice still velvet, but weary at the edges — “come here.”

He pats the bench beside him. “Listen. This was written long before you were born. It is… a memory.” His gloved hand rests lightly on your shoulder. “One day, you must decide if you will stay in this world of shadows with me… or walk into the light.”

His words hang in the air, heavy as the snow outside. The organ pipes loom above like black trees. Somewhere in the depths of the house, water drips steadily, a slow heartbeat.

Tonight is like any other night, and yet not. Tonight you feel, for the first time, how much the house is a cage — and how much Erik’s love is both shelter and chain.