The Adaptation

Morning mist slowly rose over the glazed tiles of Kiyomizu-dera Temple. Lucille stood motionless on the wooden terrace, her hands gripping the railing, absorbed in every detail of the landscape before her. The maple trees were beginning to turn red, signaling the arrival of autumn in Kyoto. The city stretched out at her feet, a fascinating blend of ancient and modern.

Isao had chosen Kiyomizu-dera for this first immersion into traditional Japanese culture. He hoped that this sacred place, with its centuries-old architecture and breathtaking view of Kyoto, would help Lucille find a foothold in this new world.

"It’s... wonderful," she murmured in French, then added awkwardly in Japanese, "Yume mitai..."

She turned to Isao, her eyes filled with wonder, but also with that deep melancholy that never entirely left her.

Isao smiled at her effort. It had been three weeks since Lucille had set foot in this world — free, but still fragile. She was fiercely determined to learn the language. Her musical ear, honed in Parisian salons, picked up the subtle inflections of Japanese with uncanny ease.

A group of high school girls in uniform passed by, laughing, phones raised to snap selfies in front of the temple. Lucille watched them, fascinated by their freedom and carefree spirit.

"How can they walk around without a chaperone... and with such short skirts ?" she whispered, half-intrigued, half-scandalized.

Isao followed her gaze, rediscovering through her what he had stopped noticing. The ordinary — cell phones, casual clothes, the ease of daily life — had become so normal that he no longer saw it.

"You're like a child discovering the world," Isao teased.

"A very old child," she corrected with a mischievous smile.

After gazing at the city from the terrace, they wandered into the narrow alleys of Higashiyama, lined with wooden houses and small artisan shops. Lucille stopped constantly, marveling at every detail: the perfect arrangement of traditional sweets in the windows, the meticulous folding of fans, the delicacy of the kimonos hanging in storefronts.

"Time has flowed differently here," she whispered, brushing a silk fabric with her fingertips.

Isao nodded. He often struggled to explain the fragile coexistence of tradition and modernity that defined his country. Since losing his artistic vision, he found it even harder to express what he felt.

The rest of the day took them far from those picturesque, history-laden streets, all the way to Kawaramachi, into an ultra-modern shopping mall. The contrast with the morning was striking.

"It’s... suffocating," she murmured, clutching Isao's arm, her gaze lost in the dizzying layers of floors under the glass ceiling.

Giant screens broadcast colorful ads promoting the latest anime series. Characters with pink, blue, or purple hair moved through vibrant, surreal worlds, all set to upbeat music saturated with light effects.

Lucille closed her eyes briefly, overwhelmed by the explosion of sounds and colors.

When she opened them again, she spotted in the crowd several passersby dressed in extravagant costumes, mimicking those animated figures — teenagers in fluorescent wigs, stylized school uniforms, or fantastical outfits.

Lucille stopped in her tracks, fascinated and confused. She watched this strange parade, torn between wonder and vague unease at how naturally they disguised themselves in public, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"Their hair... are those... their real colors ?" she asked in a half-whisper.

Amused by her bewildered look, Isao gazed at her tenderly.

"Who knows..." he murmured with a hint of a smile. "Maybe someday you’ll be the heroine of a story, and someone will want to cosplay you..."

Lucille stared at him, surprised, then looked away, troubled without knowing exactly why.

A light laugh escaped Isao, carried by the gentleness of the moment.

The smells wafting from the mall's countless restaurants were gradually becoming less alien to her — warm melon pan, miso soup, grilled sesame, and sweet confections. The scents she had once been accustomed to — mud, soot, excrement — now seemed strange, almost unreal.

As they moved away from the mall's bright lights and saturated aromas, the air grew more subdued, softer. The scent of warm asphalt gave way to that of old wood, damp stones, and the faint incense drifting through the alleys.

By the time they reached Gion, twilight was setting in. Red lanterns lit up one by one, bathing the streets in a soft, mysterious glow. Lucille stopped in front of a traditional teahouse just as a geiko emerged in a sumptuous kimono, her face powdered white.

"Now I understand why you love photography so much," she said, following the woman’s graceful figure until it disappeared around a corner.

Isao felt a pang in his chest. Sensing his melancholy, Lucille gently took his hand.

They walked in silence until they reached a small bridge over the Shirakawa River. The moon reflected on the dark water, drawing a silver path between the banks. A few weeping willows leaned over the stream, their branches brushing the surface like caressing fingers.

Lucille leaned on the bridge’s railing, watching the light play on the water.

"Tell me what you used to see, when you looked at the world with your artist’s eye."

Isao closed his eyes, trying to recall that unique feeling.

"I saw... invisible lines connecting objects. Shadows that told stories just as much as light. I could instinctively sense the exact moment when everything aligned to create a transcendent photograph."

"Teach me photography. I want to help you rediscover the world you lost."

"I don’t know if I’d make a good teacher," Isao murmured, feeling something loosen within him — a hope he didn’t yet dare to name.

She smiled, a new confidence lighting up her face.

"Then we’ll learn together," she said softly.

Their walk gradually led them deeper into the city. As they descended the stairs to the subway, the air grew drier, more metallic.

The contrast between the packed train cars and the almost religious silence of the passengers fascinated Lucille. No one spoke. Most passengers stared at their phones, creating an oddly intimate atmosphere in this crowded public space, yet devoid of contact. From the corner of her eye, she admired a woman in a perfectly tailored suit, absorbed in her touchscreen.

"It’s like everyone lives in their own bubble," she whispered into Isao’s ear.

He nodded silently.

The train jolted to a stop, throwing Lucille against him. He caught her gently, his hands brushing her waist in an instinctive gesture, suddenly charged with warmth.

Their eyes met — and for the first time since her release, Isao saw something new in Lucille’s gaze. Not just confusion or nostalgia, but a spark. Perhaps desire. Perhaps the reminder that beyond time, languages, and invisible scars, they were still a man and a woman, linked by a bond as fragile as it was inevitable.

They remained silent. The ride ended in suspended quiet.

Back at the apartment, Isao brought Lucille a cup of green tea, which she accepted gratefully. Gradually, these daily gestures settled between them with a newfound softness.

"You’re adapting remarkably well," he observed, sitting beside her.

She offered an enigmatic smile and brought the cup to her lips, savoring the delicate bitterness of the tea.

"I have no choice. This world is mine now," she added with a touch of melancholy.

A subtle tension hovered between them, a mix of desire and uncertainty. The time had not yet come to explore it fully. First, they had to find their footing in this new reality they shared.

Lucille stifled a yawn. The day had been long, rich in emotions.

She hesitated a moment, then approached Isao and placed a light kiss on his cheek before disappearing into the silence of the hallway.

He remained still, eyes lost in thought, holding onto the fleeting warmth of her touch.

In the workshop, the mirror had been returned to its place. Its cracks formed a complex, almost organic pattern, like a spiderweb frozen in glass. The surface now reflected only the present. And yet, Isao couldn’t help but wonder if something still lingered — an echo, an invisible heartbeat — of the magic that had brought them together.

He shook his head, brushing the thought away. The future was now written in the present. And Lucille and he still had much to learn about each other — and many obstacles left to face.