Christine Daaé stood next to her father's bedside, her tiny figure barely tall enough to see over the bed. Sweat ran down Gustave's pale face as his eyes searched around the candle lit room. As Christine dabbed her father's fever ridden forehead with a cool cloth, he weakly reached up and engulfed her hand in his, squeezing it tightly.

"Christine," he murmured, exhaling a pain filled gasp.

"I'm here, Papa."

He inhaled deeply, attempting to steady himself. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there tonight. I'm sure you sang beautifully."

"It wasn't the same without you there," she said. "but you'll be there next time, right?"

"Christine," he said, looking grim. "There isn't going to be a next time."

"What do you mean?"

"Listen carefully, Christine. I'm not going to be around forever, but even if you feel alone, even you can't see me, I will send the angel of music to you."

"What are you talking about, Papa? I don't understand."

"You'll understand when you're older. Just remember, the angel of music will always be there to protect you."

Gustave inhaled once more as though merely speaking caused him great pain. He lifted his hand up, gently taking Christine's face in hands. "I love you, Christine. I will always love you."

Christine began to cry. Her tiny face scrunching up. "I love you, too, Papa."

Madame Giry entered the room then, draped in black. She moved to stand behind Christine, placing her hands on her shoulders.

"Your father needs his rest, my dear," she said. "Let him sleep in peace."

Gustave lifted his head to place a kiss upon his daughter's forehead.

"Goodnight, sweetheart. I'll see you in the morning."

Christine unwillingly stepped away from the bed, letting his hand slip from her grasp.

"Goodnight, Papa."

As Madame Giry lead her out of the room, Christine had a sinking feeling that the ghost like image of her father would be the last time she would ever see him alive.