The Temporal Breach

Twilight enveloped Isao’s workshop, pierced only by the bluish light filtering through the slightly parted curtains. A blue moon — a rare phenomenon in which a second full moon appears within the same month — cast a spectral glow upon the Victorian mirror. Isao had spent days preparing for this session, meticulously following Nakamura-sensei’s instructions.

"The mirror must be exposed to the direct light of the blue moon," the old man had explained to him. "Between our worlds, the boundaries thin on these particular nights."

The air in the workshop carried a metallic tang mixed with the aroma of ancient resins — a strange blend where mugwort mingled with the scents of collodion. The shadows of the furniture cast by the moon stretched across the wooden floor, lending the room the appearance of a shadow theatre. Isao ran a nervous hand along his neck. How long had it been since he had slept properly ? He felt his body vibrating with a feverish fatigue, the kind that precedes decisive moments.

Tonight would be different. There was something in the air — an electric tension, as if suspended in an impatient expectancy.

Isao lit the bundle of protective herbs. Their fragrant smoke rose, forming dancing spirals that imbued his workshop with the air of a sfumato painting.

The mirror’s reflection quivered ever so slightly, as if stirred by a flutter of anticipation. Isao’s heart raced as he poured the emulsion over the first glass plate, allowing it to flow with the precision honed over the years. In the amber darkness of his darkroom, illuminated solely by the inactinic lamp, he sensitized the plate with silver nitrate.

There was an almost mystical ritual in this technique, where alchemy took hold — the surface absorbed an invisible energy, poised to capture a fraction of the world.

Isao positioned himself behind the photographic chamber, beneath the black drape. On the frosted glass, the inverted mirror appeared slightly blurred. He adjusted the focus before inserting the damp, delicately cream-colored plate into the apparatus’s frame.

"Alea iacta est," he whispered — a saying taught to him by his sister.

The moon struck the mirror, and Isao removed the lens cap. Thirty seconds of exposure followed. Time seemed to stretch, with each second elongating as though it were an hour.

A subtle vibration coursed through the camera. Isao furrowed his brows in intrigue.

He closed the shutter and hurried to develop the plate. The developer flowed over the surface, gradually revealing an image. But what materialized shattered his rationality entirely — it was a cobbled street, buildings with ornate facades, and figures clad in garments of another era.

Stunned, Isao lost himself in the emerging photo. He recognized the Haussmannian architecture, the street lamps, the horse-drawn carriages… An impossible view of the July Monarchy’s Paris.

Without delay, he prepared a second plate, and then a third. Each new plate unveiled more of this 19th-century Paris, as if a temporal window were gradually opening.

At the sixth exposure, something extraordinary occurred. As Isao peered through the frosted glass, the image began to ripple, as if its surface had turned liquid. No sooner had the exposure commenced than the lightproof frame of the photosensitive plate seemed to vanish completely. In its place, an inverted, bustling Parisian street stretched out, so vivid he could almost hear the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones and smell the coal and freshly baked bread.

The figures moved with a supernatural precision. Women in pagoda-sleeved dresses with wide skirts, their waists accentuated by fitted bodices, strolled along the banks of the Seine. The fashion of 1845 was displayed in every minute detail: slightly tilted cloches, sumptuous fabrics, and parasols filtering the last rays of the sun as the shadows slowly claimed the cobbled alleys. Further on, a lamplighter danced a flickering flame at the end of his pole, one by one awakening the lanterns that soon projected their uncertain glow upon the stone facades.

A richly dressed lady passed through his field of vision, her face partially hidden beneath a hat adorned with feathers. Other figures followed — men in top hats, a flower vendor, a small chimney sweep — all seemingly oblivious to being observed through time.

The scent emanating from the plate blended chemistry and nostalgia, as if Isao could inhale a fragment of that bygone era.

In the workshop, Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 floated in the air, enveloping the scene with an almost otherworldly softness. Isao hadn’t really paid attention to the music when he started his playlist, yet at that precise moment, every note seemed to accompany the vision before him, as if the piano and the scene had attuned themselves to a secret harmony.

"This is impossible," Isao murmured, his breath catching.

He rubbed his eyes, certain he was experiencing a hallucination. Yet the image persisted, its clarity striking. He could discern the expressions on the passersby’s faces, the details of the shop signs, even the reflections of light in the puddles.

Suddenly, a jolt passed through the camera. The scene shifted. The buildings remained, but the crowd had cleared. At the center of the urban chaos, a young woman in a deep blue dress — her hue nearly perceptible despite the monochrome process — stood motionless. Her face was bathed in the diffuse light of late afternoon. That striking chiaroscuro, the interplay of shadow and the glow of her skin, unfolded before Isao.

Isao felt his heart stop. Lucille. It was her — without the spectral aura that usually accompanied her appearances in the mirror. This was not a distant, hazy vision. She stood there, solid and real, looking straight at him as if she could sense his presence across time.

Their gazes met through the impossible distance. It was a living look, filled with awareness and an unsettling intensity. Time, space, even logic itself seemed to collapse under the weight of this unlikely encounter. Her lips moved; she tried to say something, yet no sound reached him.

"Lucille..." Isao clearly articulated.

To his great surprise, she nodded. Her eyes widened with a sudden hope. She too reached out, her fingers seeming to almost touch the invisible barrier that separated them.

Isao felt his breath catch in that unexpected connection. The glass lay between them, yet the space in between appeared to vanish, as if an unseen force wove a link beyond time. What was he to do ? What could he do ? Another jolt shook the device and, in an instant, the scene began to fade.

"No!" Isao cried out in despair.

The surface of the glass resumed its usual solidity. The breach was closing.

"Wait!"

Then she disappeared, leaving Isao alone with his bewildered reflection.

He slumped into his chair, panting, his mind reeling. What he had just experienced defied comprehension. It wasn’t merely a captured scene or a frozen fragment of his life — it was a temporal window, an ephemeral passage between their two worlds.

Feverishly, he developed the last exposed plate. The photograph revealed the Parisian street with Lucille at its center, her hand outstretched toward him. But that was not all: a shiver crawled up his neck as, in the background, a male silhouette stood in a doorway — a slender man with a dark, intense gaze. His dark suit was soberly elegant, a mark of distinction rather than ostentation.

He bore no resemblance to a passive onlooker. His gaze seemed to pierce the lens, as if he knew he was being observed. His expression was anything but neutral — a chilling glimmer danced in his eyes, a form of challenge or perhaps disdain. An unsettling thought struck Isao: what if this man, across time and through the glass, was watching him as well ?

This temporal breach changed everything. It not only confirmed Lucille’s real existence in the Paris of 1845 but also opened the possibility of a passage between their eras. The hope stirred by this discovery was almost painful.

Isao spent the remainder of the night analyzing each plate, meticulously noting the exact conditions of the experiment. The moon’s position, the composition of the emulsion, the angle of the camera — everything had to be reproduced exactly if he were to hope to reopen the breach.

At dawn, as the bluish light gave way to the first golden hues of morning, he surveyed his results spread out on the table. Six glass plates revealing fragments of the July Monarchy’s Paris, like multiple windows into a vanished world.

Isao understood that the phenomenon of this temporal breach raised as many questions as it answered. The possibility of a physical passage existed, but at what cost ? Could the rules of time be defied without consequence ? Adrien Rousseau, who had sensed his presence, would he not redouble his efforts to keep Lucille captive ?

Now, two eras, two worlds were at stake, their boundaries rendered porous by the magic of collodion and the power of a love that transcended time.

Isao knew he had crossed a critical threshold in his quest.