Three months later, the small chapel near Isabella and Gabriel's coastal home glowed with candlelight. Erik had insisted on dusk – "When the day and night become one, like us," he'd said. The sea breeze carried the scent of roses through the open windows, mixing with the incense.

I stood before the mirror in Isabella's spare room, hardly recognizing myself. The wedding dress was nothing like the elaborate cage Cal had chosen for me years ago. This one was simple, flowing like music made visible, with delicate lace that reminded me of Erik's compositions – complex yet ethereal.

"He's nervous," Isabella said, adjusting my veil. "Gabriel's trying to keep him calm in the music room."

I smiled, remembering how Erik had spent his recovery at the piano Isabella had found for him, composing our wedding music even when he could barely sit up straight. The knife wound had healed slowly, leaving another scar to match his others, but each mark told a story of survival.

"Did he keep his mask on?" I asked softly.

"No," Isabella smiled. "He hasn't worn it in weeks, not here. You did that, Rose. You helped him see he doesn't need it, not with family."

Family. The word brought tears to my eyes. Isabella and Gabriel had become that for us both – healing more than just physical wounds during those long weeks of recovery.

The piano music that drifted up from below changed to a melody I recognized – Erik's signal that he was ready. My heart fluttered.

"Time to make an honest phantom of him," Isabella winked, handing me my bouquet of blood-red roses tied with a black ribbon.

The small chapel held only our closest confidants. Madame Giry stood near the altar, her stern face softened with rare emotion. Meg sat at the piano, taking over from Erik as he turned to watch me enter.

He wore no mask.

His face, in all its scarred glory, was bare to the candlelight, and his golden eyes shone with tears as they met mine. He stood tall and strong, though I knew the wound still pained him sometimes. His black formal wear was impeccable, but it was his expression – wonder mixed with absolute love – that took my breath away.

The music Erik had composed for this moment soared through the chapel as I walked toward him. Not the traditional wedding march, but something new – a melody that spoke of darkness and light finding harmony, of two souls who had faced death and chosen life together.

"Mon ange," he whispered as I reached him, his voice thick with emotion.

"My phantom," I replied, taking his hands in mine.

The priest, an old friend of Gabriel's who asked no questions about Erik's face or our unusual circumstances, began the ceremony. But it was the vows we had written ourselves that mattered most.

"I once thought myself a ghost," Erik's voice carried through the chapel, musical even in speech. "A creature of darkness and solitude. But you, Rose, you showed me I could step into the light. You saw beyond the mask, beyond the scars, to the music in my soul. I pledge that music to you, every note, every melody, until death itself cannot part us."

My turn came, and I squeezed his hands tightly. "I was drowning in a life that wasn't mine, until your music gave me air to breathe. You taught me to sing, but more than that, you taught me to live truly. I pledge myself to our duet, to the music we make together, in darkness and in light, until the last note fades."

When the priest pronounced us husband and wife, Erik's kiss tasted of salt – tears of joy from us both. Meg played the triumphant music Erik had composed for this moment, and rose petals rained down (a surprise from Madame Giry, I would later learn).

The celebration moved to Isabella and Gabriel's garden, lit with hundreds of lanterns. Erik had recovered enough to sing our duet – a new piece he'd written during his convalescence, about finding love in the most unexpected places. Our voices twined together under the stars, and I saw Isabella wipe away tears as she leaned against her husband.

Later, as we danced slowly in the garden, Erik's arms strong around me despite his healing wounds, he whispered, "I never dreamed I could have this."

"A wedding?" I teased gently.

"Love," he replied simply. "Acceptance. A family." He glanced at our small group of guests – Isabella and Gabriel talking with Madame Giry, Meg playing softly on the piano they'd moved outside. "A life in the light."

I touched his scarred cheek, remembering how close I'd come to losing him. "The music of the night doesn't have to end," I said softly. "It just has to make room for the dawn."

His smile – still rare but increasingly frequent – lit up his entire face. "Then let us make music in both, mon amour. For all our days."

Above us, stars sparkled like diamonds scattered across black velvet, and the distant sound of waves provided a gentle percussion to the night's symphony. We had survived the darkness – the Titanic's icy depths, Cal's violence, near-fatal wounds – and emerged stronger, our love tempered like steel in fire.

The Phantom and his Rose, finally home in each other's arms, ready to write the next movement of our endless song.