The Language of Images

Dawn was barely breaking on the horizon when Isao opened his eyes, the events of the previous night still vivid in his mind. That whisper in French, that wavering silhouette in the mirror… It hadn’t been a dream. Despite the accumulated fatigue, he sprang to his feet, slipping into his work kimono as he cast a glance toward the imposing Victorian mirror that stood majestically in his studio. The surface appeared calm, ordinary, as if nothing had happened.

And yet, he knew.

As he prepared his breakfast, Isao began to think methodically. Wet collodion was a capricious technique, sensitive to the slightest variations in chemical composition and light exposure. What if those very variables were the key to better communication with Lucille?

"I must try everything," he muttered to himself as he pulled out his vials of chemicals.

***

The following days became an obsessive quest. Isao barely slept, ate distractedly, immersed in a series of photographic experiments like never before. Each morning, he meticulously noted the modifications he planned to make: a slight increase in ammonium bromide in the collodion one day, a reduction in silver nitrate the next. He also varied light sources, switching from direct lighting to more diffused reflections, from daylight to candlelight at dusk.

By the third day, a breakthrough occurred. As he exposed a plate prepared with more diluted collodion than usual, under the orange glow of twilight, Isao noticed a subtle change in Lucille’s behavior. Her gaze lingered on him longer. Her eyes, usually veiled in a kind of unfathomable melancholy, now shone with a softer, more present light.

At times, she would slightly tilt her head, her lips stretching into a shy, almost uncertain smile — a smile meant for him, surely. Her expression was no longer just distant or melancholic — it was becoming gentler, more human. One evening, after revealing a plate, Lucille stared at him. A disturbing, direct gaze, as if she were trying to establish a direct connection through the mirror.

“What are you trying to tell me…?” he wondered aloud, caressing the edge of the still-wet plate.

One night, she held out a white rose to him, her slender fingers wrapped tenderly around the stem. Her gaze was lowered, her eyes gleaming with a hesitant, almost timid light. A fragile smile, full of longing. A strange warmth radiated through the plate, and Isao froze before the image, heart pounding in his chest. Why this feeling of closeness? Why did the gesture feel so intimate? He reached out a trembling hand toward the glass, fingers brushing the cold surface, instinctively trying to grasp the flower.

This photograph was different. Unique.

The next morning, after contemplating it at length in the pale morning light, Isao made a decision. He carefully varnished and framed the image in a dark wooden frame, taking care not to damage the delicate surface of the plate. Then he hung it in a place of honor, just above his desk, where daylight would kiss the glass every morning.

Isao paused for a moment, his gaze lost in the photo. The white rose, Lucille’s timid smile, that diffuse warmth seemingly embedded in the image… He had never captured anything so perfect. Deep within himself, he knew it wasn’t merely a technical or artistic success. This image was a window opened between their two worlds. A vulnerable echo of Lucille’s soul.

“It’s a masterpiece…” he whispered.

He briefly wondered why he felt the need to protect it, to keep it close. It was just an image… wasn’t it? Maybe because, for the first time, Lucille had offered him something — not just an appearance, but a fragment of herself.

“I want to understand who you are,” Isao murmured as he prepared a new plate. “Show me your world.”

And Lucille seemed to hear him, for the days became a strange dance between two worlds. With each new plate, a fragment of her life was revealed. She continued to show him glimpses of her past, a disarming vulnerability worn on her skin. Lucille was no longer just an ethereal figure captured through a lens. She was becoming a woman, with a story, a memory, and a silent need to be heard.

Each new image revealed a deeper layer of her existence. Through the chemistry of collodion, they had established a silent yet intimate dialogue, their two eras meeting in this ephemeral space created by photographic art.

One day, he managed to capture a particularly moving series. Lucille as a child, running through the gardens of a vast French château, her long blonde curls flying in the wind. Another showed her as a teenager, on her first day of piano lessons, fingers delicately poised on the ivory keys, playing what seemed to be a melancholic melody. Her slender fingers brushed the keys with hypnotic grace. On another plate, she danced alone in a large room, her movements fluid, evoking a solitary waltz. Then a third image showed her holding a sheet of music toward the camera, as if she wanted Isao to hear it through the photograph. Then came images of her young adult life in mid-19th century Paris: the literary salons where she recited poetry, the portrait sessions for various painters of the era.

Isao felt the echo of that connection reverberating within him. This woman, gone for nearly two centuries, was trying to trust him.

These captured moments created a strange and powerful intimacy between them. Isao would spend hours contemplating the images, trying to imagine the sounds, the scents, the sensations of that vanished world she was revealing to him fragment by fragment.

A form of communication had just been established.

“I’ve never felt such a connection with anyone,” he confessed one evening to his sister on the phone, without mentioning the supernatural nature of the relationship. “It’s like every photograph brings me closer to her.”

That night, as he prepared a new plate, Isao paused for a moment. The moonlight danced faintly on the surface of the collodion. The stillness in the studio felt unusual, almost too silent. He briefly closed his eyes, his mind touched by a strange sensation — a premonition, as if something were watching from the shadows.

***

On the tenth day of their exchanges, something changed. The plate Isao developed chilled his blood. Lucille’s expression had changed. Her fragile smile had vanished, replaced by a feverish grimace. And behind her… a shadow. At first blurry. Then a silhouette. Frozen. Too frozen.

Disturbed, Isao immediately prepared a new plate, adjusting the collodion concentration and using cooler lighting to enhance the contrast. If the usual formulas allowed him to capture the softness of shadows, this time he aimed to reveal what hid in the darkness. The result was even more disturbing. The dark figure behind Lucille was clearer, and although its face remained obscured, its posture betrayed a threat. Lucille, for her part, now seemed gripped by an unspeakable fear, her eyes pleading for a help Isao didn’t know how to give.

The next day, the mirror seemed to vibrate with contained energy, moonlight reflections dancing on its surface like anxious ghosts. The photographs took a darker turn. Lucille appeared near a window, as if trying to escape, while the masculine presence drew inexorably closer. In another image, she was curled up in a corner, arms wrapped protectively around herself. When the final image — enriched with elements sensitive to the faintest variations of light — was revealed, Isao took a step back. It showed Lucille, her eyes staring directly into his, a tear sliding down her cheek, while a man’s hand appeared at the edge of the frame, as if ready to seize her.

She held a sheet of paper toward him. The letters formed slowly, too slowly — as if tearing themselves from silence:

H...E...L...P... M...E...

His breath caught.

H...E...’S... C...O...M...I...N...G...

Behind her, clearer than ever before, stood a man in period clothing, his face partially visible this time — an intense, almost devouring gaze, and a smile that was anything but human.

Isao felt a cold dread spread through his chest. This presence — was it Adrien Rousseau, the painter mentioned by the antiques dealer? The man suspected in Lucille’s disappearance?

It seemed their photographic sessions had not only forged a link with Lucille, but also alerted someone — or something — else to their communication.

He carefully stored the plate and sat facing the mirror, heart pounding.

“I will find a way to save you, Lucille,” he murmured in French.

In the wavering reflection, he thought he saw the surface ripple slightly, as if his words had been heard across the boundaries of time and space. And fleetingly, Lucille’s gaze seemed to shine with fragile hope.