The Mirror of the Heart

Days stretched out like a succession of revelations. In his studio bathed in soft, subdued light, Isao arranged his glass plates with a precision that only passion could instill. What had begun as an artistic quest had, almost without his knowledge, transformed into an obsession — a deeper connection. On one of the shelves, dozens of images of Lucille accumulated — each one sharper than the previous, each revealing a little more of the essence of the woman trapped within the mirror.

"Talk to me about music," asked Isao in Japanese, before correcting himself in clumsy French. Those words he had learned shone in the darkness like lost fireflies.

In the mirror, Lucille smiled. Her image had grown more defined over the weeks. She was no longer that vague silhouette that had appeared during the early experiments. The process he had perfected allowed him to see her with an almost painful clarity — as if she were there, within reach, separated only by that thin silver surface.

Communication, once laborious and sporadic, had become natural. Her voice now passed through the mirror with a disconcerting ease, as though the barrier between them were gradually dissolving. Lucille spoke distinctly, her presence filling the studio with a strange, new quality.

She let her fingers glide along the ornate frame in a familiar gesture.

"Chopin was barely known in Paris when… when everything happened." Her voice resonated like a distant echo, yet it was clear enough for Isao to catch every nuance. "His nocturnes made me feel as if I were floating above the world."

Isao nodded, briefly checking his smartphone, then played one of Chopin’s nocturnes. Lucille’s eyes lit up with an emotion so vivid that Isao had to avert his gaze, as if he had unwittingly stumbled upon a moment of intimacy not meant for him.

"And you ?" she asked after a long silence. "What do you love about today’s Japan ?"

Isao smiled and prepared a new plate. He had discovered that moments of conversation were most conducive to capturing Lucille’s essence — when she momentarily forgot about her glass prison.

"I'll show you," he promised.

In the following days, he brought snapshots of Kyoto to the mirror: cherry blossoms in full bloom, temple roofs under rain, geishas quietly threading through the alleys of Gion. Each image was carefully chosen, like a rare gift offered — a window into a world she could no longer touch. She contemplated them with a fascination that reminded Isao of his own thrill in discovering the perfect angle, a unique light.

"So this is how you see the world," she murmured one evening while gazing at a photograph of a Zen garden at dusk.

***

Within the intimacy of his studio, Isao sometimes caught himself speaking aloud, forgetting that his conversation with Lucille existed only in this strange in-between. He recounted his days, mixing Japanese and halting French, telling her about photography commissions and the places he had visited. She listened with an attention that gave his words a newfound significance. No one had ever listened to him so intently.

Yet at times, she seemed different — more melancholic, more distant. Sometimes she remained silent for hours, staring beyond Isao as if perceiving something he could not.

"What is troubling you ?" he ventured one evening after capturing a particularly successful series of images.

Lucille hesitated, her fingers nervously playing with the lace of her dress.

"I sometimes wonder… are you merely trying to capture the perfect image ?"

The question struck him like a blade. Instinctively, he stepped back, nearly toppling the carefully arranged chemicals on his worktable.

"What do you mean ?"

"You spend hours perfecting your art, searching for the ideal light to photograph me," she continued, her gaze suddenly intense. "But when you look at me, I wonder if you truly see me — if you see who I am or only what you want to see."

Isao felt his heart constrict. He had never imagined that his intentions could be misinterpreted.

"I… I am trying to understand you."

"Or to possess me, like him ?"

Her voice was barely audible, yet the question hung between them like an oncoming storm cloud.

Isao remained motionless, his heart tightened by a truth he dared not confront.

For that was the paradox: the more he tried to capture her, the more she eluded him. The better he honed his art to see her clearly, the more he risked reducing her to a mere image — the same fatal error that Adrien Rousseau had committed before him.

That night, Isao slept little, haunted by Lucille’s words. Was she merely an artistic obsession ? A technical challenge to overcome ? He recalled the thrill of capturing her image for the first time — a rush tinged with greed, unsettling and almost guilty. A feeling Adrien Rousseau had probably experienced before him.

The next morning, his sister Mizuki stopped by unannounced. She paused at the threshold of the studio, looking with concern at the dozens of photographs of Lucille hanging on the walls.

"Isao, what are you doing ?" she asked softly, as if speaking to a child. Her worried eyes flitted over the faces — the same face reproduced from slightly different angles, an obsession incarnate. "You haven’t answered my messages..."

"I'm working on an important project," he replied uneasily.

Mizuki approached the Victorian mirror and examined it with curiosity.

"Is it for a new exhibition ?"

"Something like that."

He saw her place a hand on the ornate frame and felt a sudden, protective impulse to stop her.

"I heard you talking when I arrived," his sister said as she moved away from the mirror. "Who was that ? Is there someone else here ?"

Isao shook his head. How could he explain that he conversed with a woman imprisoned for nearly two centuries ? She had always been more pragmatic than him, seeing the world as it was without the nuanced overlay of his artistic vision.

"I'm just thinking aloud," he lied. "It helps me clarify my ideas."

Mizuki looked at him for a long time, not entirely convinced.

"You should go out with friends and try meeting girls. It would do you a world of good."

***

After her departure, Isao remained still, gazing at the mirror. For the first time in weeks, he did not prepare a new plate. Instead, he sat facing the silent reflection, waiting for Lucille to appear.

"I'm becoming like him," he murmured when she finally materialized.

Lucille’s face softened.

"No. Adrien wanted to possess me entirely. You… I don’t know what it is you truly want."

The bluntness of her reply disarmed him. What did he really want ? At first, it was curiosity that had driven him — a mere artistic challenge. Then came the fascination with her story, the desire to understand her. And now ?

"I would like to help you," he finally said.

"Why ?"

Isao opened his mouth, yet no sound emerged. The simple, direct question caught him off guard. Why, indeed ? Was it because it was the right thing to do, or was there something else — a feeling he dared not name even to himself ? The thought struck him like a cold wave. He averted his eyes, fixating on the trembling shadow of the curtains on the floor, unable to meet her gaze.
I'm not like him, he thought, though the idea troubled him more than he cared to admit.

Lucille looked at him for a long time, as if searching for something beyond his silence.

"And if I am freed… what will become of me ? Of us ?"

The word “us” lingered between them, heavy with possibility and uncertainty. Isao had never considered what might follow. He had been so absorbed in the process — so fixated on the technical challenge — that he had not contemplated the aftermath.

He stepped back — one step, then another. His body felt heavier as he distanced himself from the mirror. At the door, he reached for the knob… but his gaze involuntarily slid back to the silver surface. Lucille was still there, motionless, her eyes fixed upon him.
Lowering his eyes, he left his studio in a daze, his breath coming in short gasps.

***

That night, Isao realized he was falling in love. Not just with the image, with the beauty captured in the mirror’s silver, but with the woman herself — her spirit, her resilience, the way she had maintained her dignity despite her captivity.

But how does one love a reflection ? How can a relationship be built with someone who exists only within glass ?

In the days that followed, the question haunted him. He no longer photographed Lucille with the same clinical objectivity. Each image became imbued with emotion — like a silent love letter.