Chapter Text
To whoever wants to unveil the mysteries of the Opera:
I write this knowing full well that some doors, once opened, do not close again.
If you are reading this, then you have already noticed that something is wrong.
Perhaps it was a name that vanished too suddenly from the programs, or the box that remained empty night after night, no matter how full the house became. Or, maybe, you heard a melody in a place where there should have been only silence, maybe you heard of the myths of the cursed spirit that haunted the Opera House until the tragedy.
Paris has a way of forgetting what it does not wish to remember. The Opera House most of all. Its stones are polished, its chandelier repaired, its stage filled again with voices, as if nothing ever screamed beneath it. Yet, there are absences no restoration can hide. Things that no rationality is able to explain.
Prince Draconia disappeared. His knight continues to guard the streets at night. And his right-hand man, Sebek, refuses to leave the city, even though the one he was sworn to protect has vanished.
There are other victims, though no one agrees on whether that word is appropriate.
Rook Hunt, renowned private investigator, was found with a broken arm in a place he should not have reached. Leona Kingscholar, one of the Opera's stars, was discovered unconscious in the catacombs, alive only by chance, and has since left the city, refusing all interviews. Azul Ashengrotto, a businessman with interests tied closely to the Opera, has not been seen since the performances ended.
The ropes master, Ashton Vargas— poor, unfortunate Vargas — died under circumstances ruled an accident. No one I spoke to could say anything of such accident, or why his name is never spoken above a whisper.
The official records speak of misfortune, but I know their injuries where deliberate.
I will admit this much: there are details I have chosen not to include here. Not because they lack relevance, but because they have already cost me something. I have learned that attention is not a neutral act in this place. To notice is to invite being noticed in return.
The former directors resigned within the same month of these events. Their successors — Crowley and Crewel — refuse all questions. They deny the existence of any disturbances, even if the performances were altered without explanation.
Mr. Rosehearts enforces rules that no longer appear in writing. He insists that certain doors remain closed and that certain seats remain untouched. No one ever challenges him.
And then there is the matter of the Shroud brothers.
Idia Shroud, prodigy, inventor, and the quiet mind behind the Opera's mechanical marvels, vanished the night of Faust's final performance — taken, some say, in plain sight. His younger brother, Ortho, was hospitalized shortly before, and afterward adopted into a family that no longer owns its last name.
Officially, there is no connection between these events.
Unofficially, there is only one explanation anyone dares to offer: The Phantom of the Opera.
Some call him a myth, some call him a murderer. Others speak of him as something closer to an angel or a god. A curse that rewards devotion and punishes disregard.
I do not know which of them is right.
I only know that the Opera House has secrets carved into its walls, that water still moves beneath its foundations, and that no one who truly encountered the Phantom ever speaks of him the same way twice.
There are spaces below the Opera where footsteps do not echo, and where reflections show things that only appear at the darkest nights.
I write this not in hopes of justice, but because stories like this do not end simply by being ignored. The Opera still stands. The music still plays. And something — someone — still listens.
I am convinced that The Phantom has truly existed, and thus, I shall write again when I know more. If this letter has reached you, then you, too, have begun to listen. I advise caution. The Phantom has never been fond of witnesses.
My name is not important, but you may call me Yuu.
Sincerely,
Just another stranger.