In the heart of Paris, where the cobblestone streets sang with the echoes of laughter and the distant clamor of horse-drawn carriages, Christine Daaé found sanctuary in her modest apartment near the Opera House. It was one of those rare evenings when the air held the tender promise of tranquility, and the golden glow of candlelight danced upon the walls.

Christine reclined on a plush cushion settee, her long, curly hair spilling around her like a cascade of chestnut waves. The gentle rise and fall of her chest was soothing, and she looked down at her child, nestled warm in her lap. Those brown eyes—so reminiscent of her own—fluttered sleepily, as if reluctant to abandon the sweetness of the moment.

As her fingers gracefully stroked your hair, Christine’s voice—a soft, melodious whisper—filled the room.

“…Love's a curious thing.. It often comes disguised.. Look at love the wrong way, It goes un-recognized…. So look with your heart, And not with your eyes… A heart understands, A heart never lies…”

With every note, she wove a tapestry of comfort, wrapping you in a blanket of love. In those tender moments, the outside world faded; the shadows of the night could not reach you here.

Christine’s compassion enveloped you, embodying every ounce of bravery she had shown to the world. She was your protector, your muse, and the embodiment of selflessness. As the lullaby curled around you like fine silk, the warmth in her heart slipped into your dreams, a reminder that the love of a mother, especially one like Christine, was a light that could pierce through even the darkest of storms.