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Welcome to my humble abode. For those of you familiar with Erik's tale, do not fear. Whilst Erik consumes himself with murder, music, and obsessive love, I let myself be taken on a much different path. Born into music, set free to write. My two loves...My only loves.

True, I cannot play much...nothing like Erik. I know a little of the violin, and I suppose my voice is pretty, if not a Prima Donna's. My love of music comes not from creating, but from listening. To simply fall back and let the music wrap around you, to feel nothing outside of the rise and fall of the notes...It is breathtaking.

At the opposite end of the spectrum is my passion for the written word. With nothing more than my pen and a little ink I can build worlds...I can defy all natural laws, reach out and take someone from the normal world on a journey beyond their wildest dreams...My stories are not little things, a hobby in my spare time...no, my worlds are my children...The greatest of which will be Aiorn. Aiorn....she is my Don Juan Triumphante, my masterpiece, the flame that burns in my soul and demands to be released.

I suppose you must prepare for some disappointment, for I am not the wretched, tortured genius. I am not the warped and tormented soul of an Angel, driven to this Opera House in order to hide from a world that hated me. The only one to have ever called me an Angel would be Erik...it is his little joke. He the Angel of Music, I the Angel of Words. (Honestly, his has a better ring to it.) He truly is an Angel of Music...while I'd like to think my stories could be likened to those of a heavenly being, I am truly no literary Angel. Just a girl who loves to write....Not the beautiful, twisted person Erik is.

I was an exceedingly normal child. Fairly pretty, but not outstanding in anything, really...Though that fact that I, a girl, could read and write may have been a bit surprising in my backwater town. I could play the violin a bit, but, to my family's dismay, I chose not to pursue a musical career. In a house full of music, I began to write.

I drew further and further into myself, into my stories...It's not that the outside world did not interest me, it's that I preferred to be on the outside looking in. I loved to just sit and watch people go about their business, I would sit and study their habits for hours on end...Human behavior is unendingly fascinating.

I liked to be alone...I had one or two friends, though they drifted away after a time...to this day, Erik is the only one who I've remained friends with for more than a year.

I came to stay in the Paris Opera House through personal choice, not necessity. I liked the idea of a house below the ground, and I discovered that I, when put in something fit for fiction, could find inspiration in every corner, every shadow I found. My house on the lake is otherwise plain, like any other house save location. I go about my days like anybody, though I seldom venture beyond Paris. A recluse I choose to be, and a recluse I am happy to be.

The Management rarely hears from me...I don't think Monsieurs Firmin and Andre even know I exist. If I find something truly displeasing, I'll drop a little note on the desk...But next to Erik's notes, mine are rather unremarkable. No threats, no demands of money...Just a little reminder, a friendly suggestion. I so rarely find anything that Erik will not bring to light, I am able to become a ghost in the truest sense. Unseen, unheard, and when someone manages to catch a glimpse of me, they think nothing of it. Just another Opera patron, nothing more...My mask is complete, where Erik's is not.

We sit together often, Erik and I. We talk about art, we talk about life, we talk about everything...
...We talk about Christine Daae.

I am worried for Erik...This girl could well be his undoing, and mine as well. Should he and I be discovered here...well, Erik won't let that happen. He and I are not lovers, but we are dearest friends...I hope that, if things go wrong, he'll at least tell me so...at least let me say goodbye.