The Price of Love

The sun was rising over Kyoto, bathing Isao’s workshop in a trembling golden light. Lying on the floor, he slowly regained consciousness, feeling hollow. The Victorian mirror stood before him, impassive, its surface reflecting the workshop as if nothing had happened. And yet, the memories of Paris, of Lucille, of the confrontation with Adrien, whirled in his mind like the lingering fragments of a dream too real.

Isao painfully pushed himself up, his sore muscles protesting every movement. He brushed his fingers lightly across the mirror’s surface, hoping to find proof of that improbable journey. Nothing. Only the cold glass beneath his fingertips, and his own reflection, pale and haggard.

Adrien’s bargain still echoed in his ears like a cursed refrain: "Join me in creating a world where beauty never dies." Even more troubling was the threat that followed: "If you free her... you will lose your artistic vision."

Isao shook his head, trying to dispel those words. Through the mirror, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Lucille’s face, her pleading gaze. Or was it one of Adrien’s portraits he had seen ?

His professional smartphone vibrated, dragging him out of his torpor. A message from his sister, worried about his silence and his general health. Eventually, he asked her to accompany him to his upcoming appointment.

Isao cast one last glance at the mirror and left the workshop, his heart heavy.

***

The uneven stone path snaked beneath the maple trees, whose lush, trembling leaves shivered at the slightest breeze. The air was warm, thick with floral scents and the dampness of the undergrowth.

Isao walked slowly, his eyes drawn to the play of shadows among the branches, his heart weighed down by the echoes of the previous night. At his side, Mizuki walked silently, instinctively respecting the burden he carried.

The whisper of the wind wound itself between the trunks, entwined with the furtive murmurs of a hidden brook beneath the roots. As they progressed, the sounds of the world seemed to fade, swallowed by a strange density, as if the forest itself were holding its breath in anticipation of their arrival.

In an outbuilding of the Adashino Nenbutsu-ji, Kagura-sama was finishing a ritual — a young grieving couple had hired her services. The old woman had prepared tea and placed sakaki branches in front of a small altar. She seemed to read in Isao’s drawn features the events of the night.

"Young woman," the itako breathed, breaking the long silence. "I sense a strong bond between you and your brother. Your help will be precious. I will tell you his story," guessing that he hasn’t done so out of fear or shame.

Mizuki nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. At first, she had been skeptical of her brother’s tales about a woman trapped in a mirror. But the look he gave that spectral image — a mixture of devotion and suffering — had convinced her of the impossible story’s reality.

"You’ve met her, haven’t you ?" asked Ume, her squinting eyes scrutinizing Isao’s face.

He couldn’t help but flinch, nodding.

"And now, you wish to find a way to free her," she whispered. "But you fear what it might cost you."

The old woman stood up with surprising agility and moved toward a cypress wood chest. She pulled out a set of cards with strange patterns, and a small hand mirror adorned with Shinto symbols.

"What you seek is an answer that neither Shintoism nor Buddhism alone can provide. This woman was imprisoned by Western magic. We must adapt our approach."

She spread the cards on a low oak table. Isao recognized French symbols: the tarot. The itako placed the small mirror in the center of the circle formed by the cards.

"These cards are from France," she explained. "A sailor gave them to me forty years ago. I learned to feel their presence. I have often combined them with our traditions."

She closed her cataract-clouded eyes and murmured an incantation blending Japanese and French words. The small mirror seemed to glow faintly.

Isao and Mizuki held their breath. She slowly turned over three cards.

"The Moon," she murmured. "Illusions, dreams, parallel worlds."

She revealed a second card.

"The Sacrifice. What must be abandoned to achieve a higher goal."

Then a third.

"The Lovers. Choice, passion, but also risk."

Kagura-sama picked up the mirror and held it in front of her.

She suddenly opened her eyes, fixing Isao with intensity.

"You are not truly seeking to free her, but to capture her image, like he did before you."

Isao recoiled, stunned by the accusation.

"No, that's not true. I want to save her!"

The shaman shook her head.

"Look deep within yourself. What drew you to her in the first place ? Her beauty, captured in your photographs. Her perfect image."

Isao lowered his eyes, unable to deny it.

"Breaking this curse requires a great sacrifice, an equivalent exchange. But you already know that," she added gently, as if she knew about the confrontation between Adrien and Isao.

"What do you mean ?" asked Isao, though he was certain he already knew.

"The ritual I will describe will allow you to free Lucille, but it will require you to give up an essential part of yourself: your ability to perceive and immortalize beauty through your art. If you fail, she will be lost. And you, along with her."

Isao felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

The itako leaned closer, placing her wrinkled hands on his.

"Now do you understand why the mirror came to you ? Why, among all the photographers in the world, it was you who was chosen to see this woman ?"

Isao shook his head, lost.

"Because you share with Adrien the same obsessive need to capture beauty. The belief that art can freeze eternity. But it is only an illusion, Isao. An illusion that trapped you both."

Isao lowered his head, contemplating the hands that had so often adjusted the focus on his cameras, developed plates, pursued the perfect image. These hands that had captured so much beauty, frozen so many moments.

"If I give up my vision," he said slowly, "what will be left of me ?"

The itako smiled gently.

"True sight. The ability to see beyond appearances."

She gathered the cards and put them away carefully.

Isao closed his eyes. He saw Lucille’s face again, her shy smile, the way she had placed her hand on his arm in Paris. It wasn’t just an image; she was a real woman, with fears, hopes, and a stolen life.

In response to his heavy silence, the old woman smiled sadly.

"Listen carefully. The ritual must be performed on the first night of Obon, under a full moon. Such a conjunction is rare, and the next one falls this summer. I will give you the list of necessary elements. But before you begin, you must be certain of your choice. Here is what you must do…"

***

The sky was now veiled with milky tones, as if the light itself hesitated to fade away. A few birds lingered in the air, the last echoes of a day gently unraveling as Isao and Mizuki left the temple. In his bag, he carried amulets, dried herbs, and special incenses.

Their path led them past a small café nestled among the trees, its dark wooden walls half-swallowed by ivy. Through the window, bathed in the golden glow of lanterns, Isao caught sight of a simple yet heartbreaking scene: a parent leaning over a little girl with light hair, laughing with a purity so radiant it seemed unreal. Her smile, luminous and fragile, had the silent grace of an angel descended among men. A smile so pure it seemed to suspend time, like a secret whispered into the heart of twilight.

Isao slowed for a moment, his heart tightened by an emotion he could not name, before continuing his way, leaving behind that fragment of eternity.

Soon, such beauty would be invisible to him. Not physically — the itako had assured him he would keep his sight — but his sensitivity, the very thing that made him an artist...

"I will be there for the ritual. You are not alone in this," Mizuki said, still shaken, squeezing her brother's hands tightly in hers.

Isao gave her a faint smile. Then he lifted his gaze to the darkening sky. Somewhere beyond the clouds, the moon continued its course. In a few days, it would be full, and he would have to make his choice.

A choice that would cost him his soul as an artist but would offer Lucille her life back.

The price of love ?