There came a shuffle of fabric and movement in your dressing room, a dull buzz reached your ears from the candles as the flames vanquished into oblivion, and the once brightly-lit room was covered in a sea of darkness. Objects once revealed by the all-seeing light were hidden by the darkness, excluding the single mirror in your dressing room; a small fog around it... and a figure.

Only when you stopped did you catch yourself in the mirror and saw her.

Maybe she was the famed Opera siren, perhaps, from the rumour behind the chandelier’s auction, and now proven to you with blaring clarity thanks to her half-mask.

She stretched her hand out of the mirror, grasping your outstretched hand, and just as she got close enough to free herself from the mirror, she smiled.

As you felt a spark of awe, her voice filled the dressing room with a clear, beautiful melody of unsuspected violins and violas. Light, yet slow, it immediately set your mild surprise at ease — until her soprano voice joined the unexpected chorus.

The Phantom of the Opera, people called them. A ghost blamed for incidents and disappearances, when an angel’s voice would shake the opera house. You, in your youth, would run and hide under the table, bed, or even your father’s arms as soon as the room cracked open with the stories of the Angel of Music. The Phantom would then use this to her advantage, enclose you in a mesmerising murmur like a siren near sea, and sing that very song. It was a song that stuck with you as a child, a song you sang when you needed strength as a singer.

The quiet singing inside the dressing room reduced to a whisper, before returning to her prior, pleasant tone. “Do not be afraid, my angel. I am Vodyanitsa. You know me as the Phantom of the Opera. I ask only for your name, and the wonderful grace of your voice.”