The Guardian of Tradition

The dawn spread its rosy fingers over Kyoto as Isao left his apartment, his bag carefully containing a few snapshots and the essentials of his equipment. The air was fresh, laden with a light mist that softened the outlines of temples and traditional houses, as if they were shrouded in a silk veil. The weight of the recent events pressed upon him, as did the growing mystery of the Victorian mirror and its distressed spectral captive.

The taxi dropped him off at the entrance of a forest path lined with moss-covered stone lanterns. The directions given by the antiques dealer were precise: follow the trail up to the small Kōmyō-ji temple, nestled in the wooded heights overlooking the eastern part of the city. It was there that Hiroshi Nakamura lived — a man whom the old lady had described as "the last guardian of the secrets of collodion."

The path wound between maples and century-old Cryptomeria trees, exuding a resinous scent mixed with the humidity from the moss clinging to the stones. Morning dew glistened on the treetops, and under his feet, dead leaves rustled softly — a discreet echo to the murmur of the wind filtering through the canopy. A crow let out a harsh cry somewhere, breaking the solemn silence of his solitary walk. After twenty minutes of ascent, Isao finally caught sight of the temple’s discreet silhouette, almost merging with the surrounding nature. Unlike the tourist religious edifices in the city center, this temple — preserved in its natural setting — seemed frozen in oblivion, as if time itself had ceased to leave its mark there.

An old man was meticulously sweeping the paved courtyard. His movements were slow and precise, like a ritual he had performed a thousand times. His weathered face bore the marks of wisdom earned over decades. When he looked up and met Isao’s gaze, his deep black eyes seemed to pierce him.

"Tanaka-san, I was expecting your visit," he said simply, as if their meeting had been foretold long ago.

Isao bowed respectfully.

"Nakamura-sensei, thank you for receiving me."

The old man rested his broom against the wall and motioned for Isao to follow. They crossed a small Zen garden where a few stones emerged from an ocean of carefully raked gravel, then passed through the threshold of an annex building that contrasted with the temple’s traditional architecture. Inside, Isao discovered with astonishment a photographic studio where different eras coexisted. Shelves buckled under the weight of old, leather-bound volumes. Antique darkrooms, with an aged yet meticulously maintained appearance, stood alongside glass flasks containing various substances. Even more surprising was a modern laboratory equipped with state-of-the-art equipment.

"You seem surprised, Tanaka-san," observed Hiroshi with an almost imperceptible smile. "Tradition does not exclude innovation. I may be the guardian of ancient knowledge, but I do not live in the past."

"The antiques dealer spoke of your expertise in wet collodion," Isao replied, admiringly.

"Hanako-san is a longtime friend," the old man answered as he prepared tea on a small stove. "She told me your story... and that of the French mirror."

Those last words shook Isao. He carefully retrieved from his bag several of the glass plates he had made and laid them on an oak table, weathered by time and chemicals. Hiroshi examined them for a long time without saying a word, his impassive face betraying no emotion.

"What you have captured here is not ordinary, young man," he finally said, pointing to the image in which Lucille appeared most clearly. He turned the plate between his fingers, observing the reversed image in the light, his eyes sparkling with a childlike wonder, as if faced with an unexpected gift. "This woman... she no longer belongs to our world."

"So you believe in this story?" asked Isao, relieved not to be considered mad.

Hiroshi served the tea in two ceramic bowls marked by time, their fine cracks highlighted in gold.

"You know, collodion is not merely a photographic technique, Tanaka-san. It allows us to see beyond the visible, revealing the soul of its subjects beyond mere appearances. Originally, when this method arrived in Japan during the Meiji era, some Shinto priests saw it as a way to communicate with the spirit world."

He rose and fetched a lacquered wooden box from Aizu adorned with delicate golden floral motifs, which he opened with care. Inside, protected by sheets of rice paper, were ancient glass plates with irregular edges. On one of them, Isao could discern what looked like ghostly silhouettes at the outskirts of a shrine.

"These images were created by my grandfather in 1887," explained Hiroshi. "He was both a priest and a photographer. He had discovered that certain chemical compositions of collodion, when combined with spiritual rites, could reveal what the human eye cannot see. Unlike digital sensors that filter out infrared and ultraviolet light to avoid aberrations, collodion records everything. This technique is more sensitive to these wavelengths — it captures a light that we cannot perceive. That is why old photographs have this spectral quality, almost too detailed... they capture a reality slightly askew from our own."

For the following hours, the old man initiated Isao into long-forgotten techniques. He showed him how to purify his equipment according to Shinto rituals, how to prepare a special emulsion incorporating mugwort — a sacred plant used in exorcism rituals — and how to calibrate the exposure to capture the very essence of spiritual manifestations.

They worked together in the laboratory, mixing Western chemicals and traditional Japanese herbal decoctions with the precision of alchemists. The acrid smell of collodion mingled with the subtle aromas of medicinal herbs.

"This method should allow your... friend to communicate with you more effectively," Hiroshi said as he demonstrated to Isao how to apply the modified emulsion to a glass plate. "But I must warn you."

His gaze grew more intense, almost stern.

"Establishing a bridge between the world of the living and that of the spirits is not without risk. The stronger the connection, the more unpredictable the consequences may be."

Absorbed by the precise gestures he was trying to replicate, Isao looked up.

"What consequences?" he asked, his voice laced with fragile emotion.

"The soul trapped in the mirror might disappear forever. And you, Tanaka-san, risk being affected in ways I cannot predict. Photography captures a part of our essence, but it also has the power to steal it from us. One of my disciples managed to establish contact with his deceased wife by applying my precepts with surgical precision, but... I have seen collodion steal his soul in the process. His body remained, but it was empty."

The sun began to decline as they completed the final sacred chemical processes. Hiroshi had imparted all he could in one day, but he invited Isao to return and deepen his knowledge of these ancient techniques.

Before letting him go, the old man handed him a small red cloth pouch.

"These herbs must be burned before each photographic session with the mirror. They will create a protective barrier."

Isao accepted the gift with gratitude.

"How can I ever thank you, Nakamura-sensei?"

The last rays of the sun filtered through the maple branches, casting on the ground a ballet of shadows and light, weaving a moving lace under the gentle breeze. Hiroshi paused to admire this spectacle before placing a hand on his shoulder and replying.

"Remember that behind every photograph lies a responsibility. You do not merely capture images, but fragments of souls."

On the way back, as the taxi descended toward the illuminated city — its shimmering lights in the distance like stars fallen from the sky — Isao reflected on the master’s words. He felt the weight of his responsibility. This was no longer simply an artistic quest or a supernatural curiosity.

In the darkness of his studio, the Victorian mirror awaited him, silent and imposing, bathed in the bluish light of the full moon filtering through the windows. Isao thought he saw a movement in the mirror, as if someone were shifting within it.

He approached slowly. Each step echoed on the wooden floor, as if he were crossing an invisible threshold. The air grew colder as he advanced. He reached out his hand and paused — hesitated. His breath had slowed without him noticing.

Finally, his fingers brushed the smooth surface. A shiver ran up his arm, lingering at the back of his neck. The glass was icy beneath his palm, much colder than the ambient temperature would allow. A doubt crept into his mind. What if, in trying to help her, he was only worsening her situation? What if their attempts at communication were strengthening the spell’s hold rather than weakening it?

Master Hiroshi’s teachings had opened a path for him. Between modern chemistry and esotericism, a perilous, uncertain path was unfolding. Had a door that Isao could never close just been opened?