Dancing with Shadows

The world around Isao shattered into a kaleidoscope of blurred images and muffled sounds. He lost his footing, a cold shiver enveloping him, immediately followed by suffocating heat. His body dissolved, every fiber disintegrating into luminous fragments before recomposing into unknown matter. His vision blurred completely. The pain was brief, searing, like a jolt splitting through his being.

This leap — this time intentional — into Lucille’s prison had once again unfolded like a nightmare. One moment, Isao was adjusting his camera in the moonlit workshop, and the next, his fingers were passing through the liquid surface of the frosted glass.

Tonight, for what might be their last evening together, Lucille had convinced him to accompany her to a masquerade ball. “An essential experience from my era,” she had insisted, with a nostalgic smile that hadn’t left her lips since their reunion. Was it really wise to expose themselves like this, when the ritual ahead demanded all their focus ? But faced with Lucille’s enthusiasm, Isao hadn’t had the heart to refuse.

The private mansion, with its tall windows, was aglow with hundreds of candles. Crystal chandeliers cast dancing rainbow reflections across the polished parquet floors. The sound of violins rose, languid and elegant. Wearing a simple Venetian mask, Isao observed this spectacle from another time with a mix of wonder and apprehension, his heart beating a little too fast beneath his mask.

"Don’t look so worried," whispered Lucille, radiant in her midnight blue gown with shifting hues. Her mask, adorned with feathers and pearls, hid the upper half of her face but revealed lips delicately tinted rose.

Lucille stifled a laugh behind her fan.

"You could almost pass for an exotic diplomat. Paris was full of foreigners enchanted by our society balls."

The first notes of a waltz rang out. Around them, couples formed, creating a shifting constellation of silk and lace, fragile as a dream on the verge of fading.

Lucille turned to Isao, a playful gleam in her eyes.

"Do you know how to dance, Mister Tanaka ?"

"I’m afraid not. I’m a terrible dancer."

"Then let a lady guide you," she murmured, slightly shy, as she extended her gloved hand.

She led him among the dancers. Her instructions were precise, whispered into his ear. “One, two, three. Turn. Now to the left.” Awkward at first, Isao gradually found his rhythm. His fingers brushed Lucille’s waist. She shivered, lifting her gaze to meet his. Time seemed to pause. Lucille bit her lip, her eyes searching his in the dim light. A silent truth settled in Isao’s mind: Lucille was far more than a photographic subject, more than a spectral image captured in silver emulsion. She was alive, vibrant, complex.

"What are you thinking about ?" she asked as they moved among the other couples.

"About the Japan you might one day discover. The cherry blossoms in spring. The lanterns of summer festivals. The temples under the snow."

"It sounds so far away. Like an impossible dream."

"No more impossible than our dance tonight."

A melancholy smile brightened Lucille’s face.

"If we succeed, what will I become in your world ? A curiosity ? A ghost from the past ?"

Isao shook his head.

"A free woman. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted ?"

Lucille turned away, her gaze following the other dancers.

"Freedom can be frightening. Here, despite the constraints and Adrien, I know the rules. In your world..."

"You’ll learn them. We’ll learn them together."

The music shifted, slower now. The dancers drew closer. Isao then noticed something strange. The masks of the other guests subtly changed under the flickering candlelight. A porcelain face revealed skin as translucent as glass. A black velvet mask, at times, exposed eyes without pupils. Behind a Harlequin mask, a face appeared split in two, like a broken reflection.

"Who are these people ?" he murmured in Lucille’s ear.

"They’re souls like mine. Trapped between two worlds, invited by Adrien."

"How is that possible ?"

Lucille gave a small, nervous laugh.

"Come now, my friend, is it really more improbable than our situation ? You’re dancing with a ghost in a mirror," she whispered in his ear.

After a short silence, her face darkened, and she added gravely:

"Don’t forget how our first date ended…"

That gentle reproach left Isao slightly ashamed and speechless.

A man wearing a raven mask was watching them intently from across the room. There was something familiar about his posture.

"Don’t look at him," Lucille whispered, pulling Isao into a movement that carried them away. "It’s him..."

Isao’s heart quickened. He instinctively tightened his hold around Lucille’s waist.

The music turned discordant, almost imperceptible to the other dancers, but obvious to Isao. The masks around them were changing further. Some guests now seemed half-transparent, their silhouettes flickering like candle flames in a draft.

"Distract me — tell me more about your Japan," Lucille suddenly asked, her voice betraying her anxiety. "Help me see beyond this prison."

Isao understood. She needed an anchor, a different reality to cling to. As they continued dancing, he described spring in Kyoto, the stone streets of Gion where maiko hurried to appointments, the ancient temples nestled among tall buildings of glass, the Zen gardens where time seemed suspended.

"The contrasts will surprise you," he said. "Old and new coexist everywhere. A bit like us."

"And your way of photographing... will it be the same for me, there ?"

The question carried a deep worry that Isao could clearly sense. He hesitated before answering.

"I don’t know what will remain of my vision if we succeed. Adrien warned me..."

"Don’t listen to him," Lucille cut in with sudden vehemence. "His words are poison."

Poison ? No. Adrien had spoken the truth. Kagura-sama had warned him of the price. Freeing Lucille meant losing what defined him as an artist. Photography was more than a profession — it was his way of seeing the world, of understanding it, of elevating it. He kept this heavy truth from Lucille. She had suffered enough already.

The violins began the final measures of the waltz. Around them, the room seemed to ripple as if seen through distorted glass. The other dancers stepped back, forming a circle around the couple. The raven mask was drawing nearer, inevitably.

"It’s time to go," Lucille whispered, her warm breath against his cheek. "You must reflect on the choice that lies ahead. And I must as well."

"What choice do you have to make ?"

Her gaze was heavy with unspoken thoughts.

"To trust you. To believe that you truly see me — and not just an image to capture."

With a fluid gesture, she removed her mask. Her fully revealed face held a vulnerability Isao had never captured in his photographs. There was more than beauty here — a depth of soul, doubts, invisible scars, a fragile strength that transcended any artistic representation.

The music had nearly ceased. The candles flickered simultaneously, plunging the room into semi-darkness.

"Adrien claims you only see my beauty — that you’re like him, obsessed with the image and not the woman. Is that true, Isao ?"

The question hit him with the force of revelation. Was there not some truth to the accusation ? Hadn’t he been first captivated by her apparition in the mirror, by the technical challenge of capturing her image ?

Lucille placed a hand on his cheek, forcing him to look into her eyes.

"I believe in you. But you must believe in me, too. I am not just a subject for your photographs. I am..."

Her voice was cut off by a sudden shift in atmosphere. The lights flickered again. When they stabilized, canvases covered the walls — all depicting Lucille in various poses. In each, her eyes reflected the same restrained terror.

Adrien now stood only a few steps away, his raven mask removed, revealing a fine-boned face with feverish eyes — the face of a man consumed by passion.

Lucille hesitated, then leaned in quickly to place a kiss on Isao’s cheek — a gesture both innocent and revolutionary for a woman of her time.

"Thank you, Isao."

That simple contact had ignited in his chest a flickering light, fragile yet unbearable. He closed his eyes briefly. In that suspended second, he could have sworn the world around them had faded, leaving only the echo of his racing heart and the burning imprint of Lucille’s lips against his skin.

Lucille’s hand, firmly gripped in his, was his only anchor as they fell between worlds.