“Is it… finally over?”
Cicero wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Not yet.”
He watched the black mist, which was still trying to reform despite being shattered, his brow furrowed.
“The obsession hasn’t dissipated. If we don’t give him an ‘ending,’ he’ll just come back.”
“An ending?” Vivian was bewildered.
“What he wants is redemption.”
Just then, Armand Perrot stepped out from the shadows.
She walked steadily, even if she stumbled slightly on the rubble. She still held the ivory-inlaid flintlock tightly in her hand — the “gift” Erik had left for her, the tool intended for her to end everything with her own hands.
She stopped only a few meters from the vortex. The suction pulled her hair into a tangled mess.
Armand raised the gun.
The dark muzzle was aimed straight at the twisted shadow in the center of the vortex.
“That’s it!” Bastien shouted from the air. “Fire! The lover dying by her own hand! How classic! How Shakespearean!”
Armand’s finger rested on the trigger, trembling slightly.
The shadow in the center of the vortex let out a roar. Countless black thorns lunged toward her, only to stop 1 inch before the muzzle.
“Do it… Armand…” The shadow’s voice grew raspy, carrying a hint of a plea. “Let me… take my final bow…”
Armand looked at the shadow.
In that moment, it was as if she didn’t see a monster or the demon that was going to turn Paris into a living hell.
She only saw the young man who had excitedly shown her architectural blueprints by candlelight; she saw the genius who had blushed over a small pouch.
“Even at the very end, you’re still so selfish.”
Armand spoke softly. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it strangely pierced through the howling wind.
She sighed, as if letting go of all the burdens of her life.
Her wrist relaxed.
*Clang.*
The lethal flintlock fell to the ground, sliding into the nearby pile of rubble.
Step by step, she walked toward the dissipating black mist, her expression full of nothing but tenderness.
“Erik.”
She called out softly.
The entire underground space was collapsing, like the end of a grand fireworks display where all the brilliance must return to the dust.
The black mist was still struggling, like a drowning child desperately trying to grab onto something to keep himself from disappearing completely from this world.
“Don’t come closer… I’m ugly… don’t look at me…”
Erik’s faint voice drifted from the mist. Until the very last moment, he still cared about his scarred face, still feared being rejected.
Armand didn’t stop.
She walked across the rubble-strewn floor, past the ruins that were once a stage.
“I’m not looking at your face.”
Armand spoke gently, just as she had 30 years ago when the young seamstress was taking measurements for the lonely architect.
“I’m looking at your heart.”
She opened her arms and walked into the cold, distorted black mist.
“Armand…” Vivian couldn’t help but call out.
But Armand didn’t hesitate.
She tightly embraced the ethereal shadow.
“It’s over, Erik.”
She buried her head in the mist, as if embracing the only lover of her life.
“Whether it’s the opera or the hatred, it’s all over.”
“We’re both old. It’s time to rest.”
A miracle happened.
The black mist, which had been violently twisting, actually quieted down in Armand’s arms.
The black malice began to fade, turning into a pale gray, and then into tiny golden specks of light.
Vivian saw that within the light, the dark figure gradually revealed a human form.
It was no longer the arrogant “Phantom” in a tuxedo and mask.
Instead, it was a man in an old shirt, his face full of exhaustion and a shy smile on his lips. Half of his face still bore terrible scars, but under Armand’s gaze, those scars no longer seemed hideous.
“Armand…”
The man reached out, seemingly wanting to touch Armand’s face, but his hand passed straight through her cheek.
“I’m sorry… I made… such a mess of the theater…”
“It’s alright.” Armand was already covered in tears, yet she smiled. “I was going to retire anyway. Let that fat man, Leroux, clean up the mess.”
The man laughed, a look of pure relief on his face.
“That’s good… that’s good…”
His body began to transform into countless golden specks of light, flying toward the dome like fireflies, toward the distant surface.
Finally, only a heavily worn golden mask remained, landing softly on the ground with a crisp *clink*.
With the Phantom’s dissipation, the vibrations in the underground space ceased.
The cold, oppressive feeling weighing on everyone’s hearts vanished, replaced by a tranquility like the calm after a storm.
Armand stood in place, maintaining her embrace, but her arms were empty.
The pocket watch on her wrist was now emitting a soft glow. Vivian was close enough to see, to her surprise, that the photo inside the cover had changed.
The originally blurry group photo had now become crystal clear. Both people in the photo were smiling; the mask was gone, and the man’s eyes no longer held gloom, only tenderness.
Armand lowered her head and gently kissed the watch cover.
“Goodnight, Erik.”
Vivian watched this scene, her nose feeling a bit stingy. She instinctively looked at Cicero beside her.
Cicero remained expressionless, merely tucking his Bible back into his coat. However, he didn’t disturb Armand, nor did he urge everyone to leave.
“What are you looking at?” Cicero noticed Vivian’s gaze.
“No… nothing.” Vivian sniffled. “I just feel… is this what you meant by a ‘low cost-performance’ commission?”
Cicero’s movements paused for a moment.
“Because it cannot be measured with money.”
—
By the time they climbed out through the dried-up underground river, it was already morning.
The moment the manhole cover was pushed open, the piercing sunlight almost blinded Vivian.
“Whew — I’m alive!”
Vivian collapsed unceremoniously onto the stone pavement of the alley behind the Palais Garnier, taking deep gulps of air.
Cicero sat on the nearby steps. His trench coat, half-charred, was incredibly conspicuous.
But he didn’t care, simply lighting another cigarette.
Bastien was the last to climb out. Even covered in mud, he still maintained his artistic poise. He stood on the manhole cover, opening his arms to the rising sun.
“Praise the sun! Praise life! Praise that…”
“Shut up.” Vivian tossed a small stone at him.
Behind them, the magnificent Palais Garnier still stood tall. The golden statue of Apollo sparkled on the roof, as if everything from the previous night had been nothing more than an absurd nightmare.
Vivian reached into her pocket, looking for a handkerchief to wipe her face, but her hand brushed against the pocket watch Armand had given her earlier.
She took it out and looked at it.
The cover was open.
The morning light filtered through the stained-glass-like leaves, falling onto the watch face.
The second hand rested there, perfectly still.
Time seemed “frozen” at the exact second the play had ended.
Quiet, and eternal.
“Let’s go.” Cicero stood up, patting the dust off his pants.
Vivian snapped the pocket watch shut and smiled.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. What’s the rush?”
She gripped the pocket watch tightly in her palm. It was the only evidence left of that long night.
It was evidence of love, of death, and of how to say a proper goodbye.