First Steps

Late morning light filtered through the curtains of Isao's workshop, tracing golden streaks across the oak floor. Lucille, lying on the fainting couch, woke with a start, heart racing and hands trembling. For a brief moment, she thought she was still trapped behind the glass. Her breath quickened, her fingers clutched the blanket, as if searching for an invisible wall.

The acrid smell of chemicals, the low hum of a machine, the distant sound of unknown traffic, and the threatening silhouettes of unfamiliar objects. Nothing resembled her world.

"It's okay," murmured Isao in hesitant French, slowly approaching. "You're safe."

She looked at him, eyes wide. He had the same face, the same features she remembered… and yet, something had changed. His gaze seemed clouded, as if a veil had slipped between him and the world.

She sat up, wrapped in a blanket he had likely placed over her as she slept. Her head was still spinning, as though her mind struggled to accept this new reality. More than a century and a half now separated her from the Paris she had known.

Mizuki entered the workshop carrying a tray with tea and a colorful assortment of wagashi. She gave Lucille a slight bow, a gesture the latter didn’t understand right away.

"Konnichiwa," she said gently.

Seeing the confusion in Lucille’s eyes, she added in lightly accented French:

"Bonjour. I hope you’re feeling well."

Lucille offered a timid smile. This simple exchange both reassured and unsettled her. A foreign language, mysterious social codes… everything felt so alien.

"Thank you for your help," she whispered. "I wouldn’t be here without you."

Mizuki smiled and placed the tray in front of her. Lucille observed the green tea, so different from the black tea she was used to. The cups had no handles, and the wave patterns painted on the porcelain were of a delicacy she had never seen. She carefully picked up the cup, clumsily mimicking Mizuki’s precise gestures. The warmth seeped into her palms — surprising. In Paris, tea was drunk from fine porcelain, never like this.

"One step at a time," said Mizuki kindly in French, her gaze warm. She would be the silent bridge between two worlds, two cultures she carried within herself.

Isao watched in silence. His gaze moved between Lucille and the familiar objects in his studio. He picked up his digital camera, adjusted the focus out of habit… then put it down again with an imperceptible sigh, without even pressing the shutter.

"Shall we take a walk around the neighborhood ?" he suggested to the two women.

Lucille nodded, torn between curiosity and apprehension. Still exhausted from her release, she had only glimpsed this new world so far.

Mizuki then presented her with the clothes Isao had bought — much to her disapproval. True to his ideals, he had chosen a midnight blue, Victorian-inspired outfit in gothic lolita style, reminiscent of aristocracy from another era. A choice his sister did not endorse. She, on the contrary, had wanted to offer something more modern: jeans, a T-shirt, and a light jacket.

"I wanted to get you something simpler and more modern," Mizuki murmured quietly, "jeans, a T-shirt… something practical. But he wouldn’t listen."

Lucille looked at the dress without daring to touch it. The sumptuous fabric and delicate lace seemed to gaze back at her.

She hesitated to take it, to wear it. But Isao’s silence — gentle in appearance — was absolute. She had no other choice. Mizuki looked away.

Lucille picked up the dress and pressed it against her chest. In her eyes, a different future was already shining.

To help her change, Mizuki guided her to the bathroom. Lucille jumped when the mirror reflected her own image, as if she still expected to see the prison that had held her for so long. She touched her face, surprised to feel her own skin under her fingers. Was it really her, this woman with features drawn by exhaustion and an expression a little lost ?

Isao waited by the front door. He handed her a pair of platform heels matching the outfit. She slipped them on, and together, they stepped outside.

Her first step out… was a sensory shock.

The air felt denser, loaded with unnamed sounds: engine roars, hurried voices in an unfamiliar language, birdsong triggered by lights as if by magic. At every street corner, a new murmur — a machine’s hum, a metallic beat, an amplified voice. She recognized none of it.

Then came the smells, hitting her like an invisible wall. A sweet, acrid vapor, the fiery echo of salted broth, the pungency of grilled fish, the peppery sweetness of batter cooked in cast iron. Heavy, greasy, unknown aromas that wrapped around her like bodiless hands. They entered her nostrils, her throat, her memory — without finding a single reference.

And then the light. Harsh. Shifting. Restless. Not the flicker of a candle or the trembling glow of a gaslight. But a cruel, artificial brilliance, fragmented, that disoriented her like a dream too vivid. Each neon blinked like a gaze she didn’t understand. The shadows had lost all density. The colors screamed at her — too vivid, too intense.

Her hearing blurred. The voices became distant, vague. Sounds collided. Nothing seemed real — or worse, everything was too real. Her heart pounded wildly. The ground beneath her feet felt like it might vanish.

Lucille placed a hand on her stomach. She didn’t know whether she was about to faint or cry.

A soft, warm hand rested gently on hers. Mizuki said nothing. Her calm, grounded gaze simply sought hers. In it, Lucille found a kind of recognition. As if, through her, the city was offering an apology for its brutality. A breath of normalcy at the edge of chaos.

"You’re not alone," Mizuki whispered.

Lucille clung to that familiar face like a lifeline amid this ocean of sensations. Gradually, her breathing steadied.

Mizuki suggested starting with a small nearby Zen garden, a haven of peace in the midst of urban clamor. They walked slowly, Lucille jumping at each honk, marveling at the glowing shop windows, clutching Isao’s arm when a car passed too close.

In the garden, surrounded by the serenity of carefully arranged stones and the rustling of bamboo, she found a semblance of calm. She sat on a bench, exhausted by the brief outing as though she had just returned from a long journey.

"How do you live in a world so… aggressive ?"

"That’s just how it is," Isao replied with a shrug. "I suppose it’s not worse than being used to the smells of 19th-century Parisian streets," his sister added with a mischievous smile.

She chuckled at the remark. The Parisian streets she had known certainly weren’t famous for their cleanliness or fragrance.

Back at Isao’s apartment, Mizuki prepared a simple meal: rice, grilled fish, and vegetables cooked in a way Lucille had never seen. She struggled with the chopsticks like a violinist handed an unfamiliar instrument, dropping her rice several times under Mizuki’s amused gaze — until she handed her a fork with a playful wink.

"Don’t worry," murmured Mizuki. "It took me years to learn how to use chopsticks properly."

That small gesture of complicity warmed Lucille’s heart, reinforcing Mizuki’s role as a bridge between two worlds.

Even in this haven of peace, her palate struggled to adapt to the new flavors.

After the meal, exhausted from the day’s emotions, she fell asleep on the futon Mizuki had prepared for her in one of the rooms. Her sleep was filled with strange dreams in which Paris and Kyoto overlapped, where she met her long-lost family, where mirrors pursued her, and Adrien’s voice still echoed — distant, yet menacing.

She awoke in the middle of the night, breathless, covered in cold sweat. The room was dark, but a sliver of light spilled under the door. She rose, still shaken from her nightmare, and moved toward the glow.

In the workshop, Isao sat with his back turned, shoulders low, facing a series of photographs of Lucille spread out across his worktable. Pictures taken before the ritual, before his artistic eye had gone dark. He gazed at them with a melancholic, painful intensity, his mind turned to the past.

She stood motionless in the doorway. Then lowered her eyes, her fingers tightening on the doorframe.

"I'm sorry... for everything," she whispered in the dark, knowing he wouldn’t hear her.

She stepped back and gently closed the door on his silence.