Erik is dead.

Erik is dead and yet still Madame Giry did not feel free. Instead, she felt nothing but crippling grief, guilt, and sorrow at the events which had come to befall the Governess and the Ghost. Surely she had expected hardship for them both, but never could she have imagined that an unlikely friendship would blossom and wilt so quickly. She had not planned on interference. No, that was being overly generous; she had not planned for anything at all, save relieving herself of a self-imposed obligation. As she stood under the smog and smothering clouds of the darkest spring day she had ever known, Madame Giry could only stare at the mounds of dirt, two adjacent and only inches apart, that would forever enshrine her greatest misdeed.

No one attended the funeral of a woman who had taken her own life or of a deranged criminal. They were buried in silence and alone, save the company of Madame Giry, who remained too absorbed in her own turmoil to pay any proper respects to the pair.

The murder of a lawyer, completed with the death of two lovers, one drowned and one slain in the struggle, caught the fancy of every paper in Paris. The daily did not hesitate to illuminate every horrid detail, painting a dramatic vignette of a twisted neck, a cognac bottle fallen from the hands of a woman in the bath, two lovers drenched in blood, limbs entwined as Erik held Amelie clutched to his chest in their final moments. With the story having enthralled and captured the morbid hearts and minds of Paris, Madame Giry knew the only way the world would ever cease to sensationalize the loss, and instead lament the death of the Amelie and Erik, would be if they heard their opera. So she set out to pay homage to the last vestige of their love.

Eleonora was performed at the Opera House only a few months later, advertised as the last work of the Opera Ghost and his muse, and subsequently met with acclaim and adoration.

Box Five remained empty.