Between Two Worlds

The transition had been brutal. One moment, Isao was merely brushing the surface of a frosted glass while adjusting the focus; the next, he found himself lying on a damp cobblestone, his breath stolen by the violence of the journey.

In the distance, the deep sound of a church bell echoed three times in the silent night.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, Isao gazed at a starry sky of a purity he had never known in Kyoto. The air was filled with foreign scents: coal smoke, tanned leather, heady perfumes, and a sharp odor he couldn't quite identify.

A shiver ran down his spine. Everything felt too real to be a dream, yet unreal enough to be accepted by his mind. The air he inhaled filled his lungs with an almost cutting cold, so different from Kyoto’s. Every detail assailed him: the textures, the muffled sounds, the strange weight of silence between each toll of the bell.

"Where am I ?" he murmured, his mouth dry, as if emerging from a nightmare.

It was impossible to know how long he had been unconscious. Three hours, judging by the church bell.

He slowly sat up, every muscle protesting as if he had fallen several meters. Around him, buildings with facades adorned with intricate moldings rose. Lamppost cast an orange glow that danced on the gleaming cobblestones. Large windows framed by heavy wooden shutters punctuated the facades. The wrought-iron signs of the shops creaked softly in the wind. The smell of warm bread floated from a lit bakery, contrasting strangely with the apparent abandonment of the street. In the distance, the whinny of a horse and the metallic clatter of a cab’s wheels echoed through the night.

Still dizzy from the brutality of the events, Isao felt his clothes, searching for tangible proof that he wasn’t dreaming. His work kimono, faded by chemicals, was still there; his smartwatch had frozen at midnight and was no longer responding. In the pocket of his kimono, his smartphone also displayed midnight, with no network available — as if modern technology couldn't coexist with this world from another time that had engulfed him.

Around him, a few passersby, bundled up in long dark coats, slipped furtively from one street to another. None seemed to notice his incongruous presence. A cab passed with a clatter, drawn by a horse whose coat gleamed under the fine rain. The acrid smell of smoke mixed with the sweeter scent of a baker opening his ovens for the morning. Panic began to rise in Isao. Was he dead ? Was this a final hallucination born from fatigue and chemical vapors ? But everything seemed so real... His throat was dry, his heart pounded in his temples, and the cold of the cobblestones seeped through his kimono into his bones. No, he was very much alive. Prisoner of another time.

As he fully stood, Isao examined his surroundings with more attention. A sign read "Rue de la Huchette." The name seemed vaguely familiar; Mizuki had mentioned it, she who had frequented a bar in this neighborhood while studying singing in Paris. He must be on the Left Bank, not far from Notre-Dame.

"Paris ?" he exclaimed, incredulous. "How is this possible ?"

A crowd had gathered near Isao: porters in rough clothes, looking exhausted, and young apprentice bakers, nonchalantly delivering their first batches. Intrigued, they exchanged quick words, their harsh street French difficult for him to grasp. Their gazes weighed on him, mixing curiosity, suspicion, and a hint of hostility. His kimono and Asian features marked him as an intruder, a living anachronism in this Paris of 1845.

Overcome with an instinctive unease, Isao quickly moved away, trying to navigate the maze of narrow, twisting, suffocating streets. The air stank of urine, smoke, and grime. Every step took him farther from everything he knew. There were no more landmarks.

His heart raced in his chest. He was truly here, nearly two centuries away from his native Japan, in Lucille’s Paris. The experience exceeded everything he had imagined.

Panic gripped him, brutal. How could he find Lucille in this foreign city he had only walked through in faded photographs ? How could he hope to see her again, he who knew nothing but his sister’s scattered stories ?

He wandered for hours, lost in the foul-smelling, disreputable alleys, hunted by the hoarse barks of stray dogs, brushing past figures hidden in the shadows, avoiding groups of thugs whose laughter echoed like a threat. Time stretched, deformed, unreal. Doubt seeped from every stone, every glance. Had he fallen into a trap ? Was this even real anymore ?

Should he find a police station ? Hide ? Search for Lucille or Adrien ? His mind wavered under the weight of unanswered questions. Mechanically, he moved toward a reassuring light, the distant sounds of the city blending with his own heartbeat.

When dawn finally tore apart the night, Isao emerged, dazed, into a small deserted square. A fountain rose from the cobblestones, pale and ghostly in the cold light. Around him, Paris slowly awoke, vibrant like an impressionist painting coming to life: elegant figures glided between the morning mist. Women in dresses weighed down by petticoats, gentlemen impeccably dressed, like actors from another era. Their laughter and conversations floated in the air, mingled with the soft splash of water, unreal, like a promise that only he struggled to understand.

On the other side of the square, a discreet figure caught his attention. His heart skipped a beat. Lucille. She was standing there, next to a gas-lit lamppost, its soft light haloing her figure. No longer spectral like in the mirror, but flesh and blood, she seemed real and tangible. Her midnight-blue dress cascaded around her, while her pale shawl rested delicately on her slender shoulders. Her hair, pinned up in an elaborate bun, highlighted the grace of her posture. Isao immediately recognized, despite the distance, the familiar tilt of her head and the elegant curve of her neck, which he had often captured in his photographs.

She had her back to him, observing a perfume display.

Driven by an irrepressible emotion, he took a step toward her, then another. Time seemed to suspend. The passersby, the cabs, the noises of the city faded into a soft blur until they disappeared from his awareness. There was only her, in flesh and bone, no longer trapped in the cold surface of a mirror but alive, breathing the same air as him in this resurrected Paris.

He had never considered what he would say to her in person, how he would approach this woman he knew so intimately through his photographs, but who, in this reality outside time and space, had never met him. He hesitated, then simply whispered:

"Lucille."

She slowly turned around, and her body seemed suspended in that moment. In that moment between two eras, their gazes met. Lucille’s eyes widened in surprise, while her right hand, trembling slightly, moved to her lips as if to stifle an exclamation.

Lucille hesitantly took a step toward him, her skirts rustling softly on the cobblestones. A tear shone at the corner of her eye, capturing the light from the lamppost.

"Isao ?" she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief. "Is it really you ?"

Her voice was slightly deeper than through their communications via the mirror, but filled with the same melody.

He nodded slowly, unable to speak, his throat tight with emotion.

The world around them turned into a muffled silence, as if time itself held its breath. Their exchange seemed suspended in eternity, until a passerby suddenly jostled them, breaking the ephemeral bubble that surrounded them. Lucille quickly grabbed the sleeve of Isao’s kimono and pulled him into an adjacent alley, away from prying eyes.

"You here, why ?" she asked, gently crumpling the fabric of his strange garment with curiosity mixed with apprehension. "But how... ?"

Isao began to explain, in French that was not his own, the ritual mentioned by the old shaman, a rite he didn’t understand, and how it had sent him nearly two centuries back in time.

"Nearly two centuries..." she repeated, stunned, as if she were holding back a painful truth.

Two centuries during which she had remained a prisoner, while all those she had loved had passed away, taking with them her last connections to the world. She was alone, a victim of Adrien's cruel curse, imprisoned by his all-consuming love.