The Dance of Mirrors

The Adashino Nenbutsu-ji temple was bathed in twilight as Isao and Mizuki passed through its gates, carrying with utmost care the heavy prison of Lucille. Ume Kagura awaited them in front of the building adjacent to Sai no Kawara — that memorial site where eight thousand tombstones silently recalled the fragility of the boundary between worlds.

On this first night of Obon, the souls of the dead returned among the living. And that night, more than ever, the world was preparing to welcome a soul that had remained imprisoned for nearly two centuries. If, that is, the ritual succeeded.

The air was thick with tension, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. If the Victorian mirror were to break now, Lucille would be lost forever. Every step taken by the Tanakas echoed in the silence like a heartbeat suspended in the void.

Kagura-sama stepped forward slowly but with confidence, her upright figure steady despite the support of her yew cane. Her face, lined with deep wrinkles, bore such gravity that it seemed to weigh down the entire room.

"The souls are already awakening," she declared simply.

With deliberate, slow movements, Isao and Mizuki placed the mirror at the center of the salt circle. Lucille’s image began to form slowly — at first blurry, like a watercolor washed by rain, then increasingly clear. And finally, for the first time, she appeared visible to all eyes. As if the nearness of awakened souls had strengthened her presence. In the glass, her gaze conveyed restrained, almost painful worry.

Isao reached out and touched the silvered surface, meeting Lucille’s outstretched hand. Under his fingers, the cool sensation was nothing like ordinary glass.

Outside, hundreds of candles were gradually lighting up across Sai no Kawara, glittering like stars fallen from the sky, forming an ocean of flickering flames that seemed to breathe.

Through the window, the full moon cast its silvery light across the wooden floor, drawing ghostly patterns that danced with the passing clouds. The bluish smoke of incense spiraled upward, filling the air with a woody, spicy, almost intoxicating scent.

"We must create a bridge between the curse, born in Europe, and its new home in Japan," explained the itako, as she traced complex talismans on the backs of small rectangular mirrors, combining ancient kanji with symbols Mizuki recognized as Christian — Gothic letters and cabalistic signs.

Isao nervously set up an improvised darkroom and prepared his chemicals. Everything had been meticulously planned so that each step could follow the next without error.

Ume placed nine red seals in a circle around the great reflective ritual object. Between them, a complex pattern had been drawn in salt, resembling a mysterious labyrinth.

Mizuki, in a simple yet elegant midnight-blue kimono, took an old rosary and a music book from her bag. She gently flipped through the pages, her fingers trembling.

"The Requiem in D minor," she whispered. "A song for the tormented souls."

Her years in Paris had given her a voice shaped by both opera and prayer. Tonight, that voice would be used in a way she had never imagined.

Isao approached Lucille. Her image wavered, blurred, almost liquefied. Her face betrayed deep concern, her eyes searching his as if trying to hold on.

"Something's wrong," he said.

He felt a cold anxiety curl into his stomach, like an invisible hand clenching his gut.

"He’s preparing too…" Lucille whispered, her image flickering like a flame about to vanish.

At that moment, a blast of icy air swept through the room. The candles flickered, and Lucille’s reflective prison trembled dangerously on its pedestal, nearly tipping over.

"My children, this ritual will be intense... and not without danger," Ume declared, with the tender sadness of a mother.

She paused a moment, as if to feel the tension vibrating around her — every breath, every hesitation.

"If you’re ready, we can begin."

Then, in a lower voice directed at Isao:

"My boy, our success depends entirely on you and your feelings. Go light the chōchin lantern above your beloved, and prepare yourselves."

Isao took the first glass plate sanctified by Ume and, with a confident motion, coated it with collodion — thin and glistening, like a new skin. The glass, meant to reflect, would now capture. He plunged it into the silver nitrate bath, watching the liquid shimmer at contact. The ritual required nine successive exposures, each one capturing a step in the process of liberation.

In a cathedral-like silence, Mizuki took a deep breath, closed her eyes to center herself, and then let her clear voice ring out with the first notes of the Introitus — funereal and solemn. A fitting choice to undo a European imprisonment ritual.

The melody was woven from sorrow and hope, a thread stretched between two worlds. Isao felt his throat tighten as the echo of her voice resonated against the temple walls. His movements remained precise despite the knot of tension in his stomach. He placed the first plate into the camera’s frame. A supernatural light seemed to vibrate just beneath its surface, as if the ritual was already breathing memory into it. He prepared a new one, then began the exposure.

Through the window, he saw something strange: the candle flames on Sai no Kawara were rising into the air, lifting from their holders, dancing like giant fireflies in the dark night. The souls summoned by Obon were answering the call, drawn by the song and the ceremony.

The surface of the mirror rippled like water — and Lucille vanished. In her place, a man’s face appeared: stern features, eyes consumed by a dark rage, staring at them. Adrien Rousseau.

"You think you can take her from me ?" he growled, his voice resonating as if from the depths of time.

Mizuki’s voice faltered briefly but recovered, trembling at first, then firming with resolve as she defied the malevolent presence. Adrien’s army of threatening reflections hovered, twisting into a shifting mosaic — like a shattered stained-glass window, each shard screaming a forgotten name.

"Keep going!" barked the itako. "Do not stop under any circumstances!"

Isao continued the photographic process with fierce determination. Every movement was a declaration, a statement of will against Adrien. The magnesium flash erupted. Adrien screamed. His image split apart — scorched alive by the light.

Isao quickly developed the ritual plate. It glowed with a luminous halo, pulsing to the rhythm of his heartbeat, and drifted toward the first seal, guided by a nacreous hand only Isao could recognize.

"Again!" shouted Ume, giving him no time to hesitate.

A second mirror was sensitized, exposed, then guided like the first by the same shimmering hand, placing it on the second red seal. Each exposure released a fragment of Lucille’s essence, bringing her closer to freedom.

Adrien’s invisible force hurled Isao against the wall. A sharp crack echoed in his chest, like splintering wood. He screamed in pain — a rib had broken. But it was nothing compared to the icy terror that crept over him: what if they failed ?

"He’s strong," Isao gasped, struggling to his feet, vision blurred.

Mizuki, eyes closed, continued singing despite her brother’s fall. Her voice trembled slightly but did not weaken. Outside, the ocean of fireflies pulsed to the rhythm of her sacred song.

"Lucille!" he called, preparing the third plate, desperately searching for her face amid the chaos.

She reappeared briefly in her prison, her eyes full of determination despite the fear. But Adrien took control again, his face superimposing itself onto hers, twisting into a cruel smile.

"You think she belongs to you ? She owes me everything. I am her world."

The reflective photographs began to spin around them — slowly at first, then faster and faster — creating a whirlwind of reflections and shadows.

Mizuki’s chant, once gentle like a funeral prayer, quickened, fractured, became a cry of anguish. When the Dies Irae thundered at the fourth exposure, a scream rang out — not Adrien’s, but Lucille’s. Her face emerged in the flash’s blaze, contorted with pain.

"He’s torturing her…" Isao choked, his voice strangled, his heart crushed by the sight.

"It’s an illusion," Ume corrected him firmly. "He’s manipulating you."

The small mirrors now spun wildly, like living projectiles. One grazed Mizuki’s cheek, leaving a fine red cut. It cracked with a sinister cry — as if the world itself rejected this forbidden passion.

Doubt crept into Isao’s heart. What if the ritual wasn’t saving her… but condemning her ?