The Social Mask

For the third time that morning, Lucille awkwardly bowed to the civil servant who was eyeing her with a mixture of perplexity and suspicion. The Kyoto Administrative Affairs Office, with its harsh neon lighting and endless rows of files, reminded her of Parisian waiting rooms where souls withered away for hours. Except here, the problem was far more complex than a mere formality.

"I assure you, these documents are authentic," insisted Isao in Japanese, followed by Mizuki translating for Lucille.

The civil servant adjusted his glasses and examined the improvised birth certificate they had managed to produce. The document claimed Lucille was a Franco-Japanese woman born in Japan and sent to France as a child. A plausible story — but difficult to prove without any trace of administrative records. His monotone voice betrayed his growing irritation:

"We found no matching record in our system," he repeated for the umpteenth time. "Without a national ID number, there is nothing we can do."

Lucille watched the exchange helplessly. She now understood Japanese better than she spoke it, but the complexities of bureaucracy went far beyond language barriers. How could she explain that she had been born nearly two centuries ago, in a distant country, and imprisoned in a mirror by a jealous painter ?

Isao was about to reply when the office door suddenly opened. Ume Kagura, the itako who had guided the liberation ritual, entered. Small, stooped, leaning on a yew cane — yet imposing by her mere presence, she advanced confidently toward the desk. Her traditional black kimono stood out starkly in the sterile environment.

"Yamada-san," she said, addressing the civil servant, who froze like a schoolboy caught misbehaving.

"Kagura-sama," he stammered, standing up hastily. "It’s an honor..."

The itako smiled faintly, then — guided by Mizuki — sat facing him without waiting for an invitation.

"This young woman is under my protection," she declared in a voice that brooked no argument. "Her case is... unique."

She placed a small red notebook on the desk, bearing the seal of the Spirit Gate.

"This is a field validation from the Kokka Rei Chōsei-chō — the National Spiritual Coordination Agency," she said calmly. "Time-singularity phenomena confirmed."

The civil servant swallowed hard. Under any other circumstances, such a claim would have seemed absurd. But coming from this mysterious woman, respected even in the highest government circles, it took on a different weight.

An hour later, they left the administrative building with documents that allowed Lucille to exist legally in Japan. She held them tightly against her. The shaman had slipped away after a brief improvised ceremony, like a seal placed upon her existence. She had also deftly avoided any questions about the Spirit Gate or the Kokka Rei Chōsei-chō.

"How did she do that ?" Lucille asked as they walked through the bustling city center.

"What matters is that you can now look to the future more peacefully," Mizuki replied simply, relieved, even if she didn’t fully understand what had just happened.

Lucille answered with a radiant smile. Mizuki’s presence warmed her heart. She had been the first to welcome her without judgment, treating her as a person — not a phenomenon.

On their way to a kaiseki restaurant to celebrate this administrative victory, they came across a gathering. Dozens of women were waving signs and chanting slogans that Lucille didn’t fully understand. Some wore T-shirts with protest messages, others colorful masks.

"A feminist demonstration," Mizuki anticipated her question before Lucille could speak. "They’re protesting wage inequality and workplace harassment."

Lucille stopped, watching these women who shouted their anger and asserted their rights without fear of judgment. One held a sign that read, "Not born to please." Another chanted boldly: "We are not your objects!"

Lucille watched them as one observes a world both inaccessible and unreal. A young woman with short hair approached and handed her a flyer, speaking a few words in Japanese.

"She says every woman should be able to break free from patriarchy," Mizuki translated.

The protester smiled at Lucille and rejoined her group. Lucille stood there, flyer in hand, lost in thought.

She had never heard a woman speak with such force. Even in their anger, these women seemed so alive, so free. At her side, Mizuki said nothing, but her quiet presence radiated a silent certainty.

Isao, meanwhile, had already taken a few steps away, his gaze elsewhere.

She had only ever lived under the gaze of men. Her worth had always depended on her beauty, on her ability to inspire artists, to be their muse. She looked at these women, so different yet united by a shared conviction: the right to live freely.

"A prisoner of the mirror, I was defined by Adrien’s gaze... and now, I’m defined by his. I wonder... who am I really, beyond what he sees in me ?" she murmured almost inaudibly.

Those words struck Mizuki like a revelation. Until now, her brother had seen Lucille only as an ethereal figure, a muse from the past. Had he ever truly seen Lucille, the woman, beyond the image ?

Isao remained silent throughout the walk to the traditional restaurant, tucked away in a narrow alley of old Kyoto. Lucille’s question hung in the air, and Isao took no part in the exchanges or debates the two women engaged in with enthusiasm.

The restaurant’s entrance was marked by a white linen noren, discreet and nearly faded in the alley’s shadows. Inside, dim lighting revealed a narrow corridor lined with dark wood and washi paper screens. A delicate aroma of dashi broth, vinegared rice, and aged wood lingered in the air, weaving a hushed calm around them. Even the servers’ barely audible voices seemed part of the tranquil harmony.

A server led them to a low table near a large window overlooking a tsukiyama-niwa — a miniature landscaped garden where stones, moss, and glowing maples formed a carefully composed scene. In the soft light, every element seemed placed as in a living painting, still yet full of life. Lucille lingered for a moment, fascinated by the quiet balance of this setting that said nothing, yet evoked everything.

Lucille knelt awkwardly on the cushion, trying to mimic Mizuki’s calm grace as she sat facing the garden. Nothing in Mizuki’s posture sought to seduce or shine — yet she radiated a peaceful strength, almost magnetic.

Perhaps this is what it means to be free, Lucille thought.

Despite her efforts to adapt, every daily gesture reminded her that she was a stranger to this time and culture.

Outside, the day gently faded, bathing the room in golden light. The dishes arrived in near-sacred calm: sashimi carved like calligraphy, clear broths, vegetables sculpted with monastic precision. Everything was precise, measured, almost ceremonial.

Lucille brought the food to her lips without paying it much attention. Her mind wandered far beyond — into the gray zones of her identity.

In the reflection of the large window, she saw her face. Absentmindedly, she brushed her hair, now tied in a simple bun, far from the elaborate hairstyles of her era. Slowly, she began to search for the uncertain outlines of the woman she might become, erasing little by little the image of the muse imposed upon her.

A memory surfaced unbidden: the stiff salons of the past, murmured conversations among well-born gentlemen, gazes cast upon her like an art object. She had been compared to a nymph, a Madonna — never to a woman of flesh and choice. Today, even that dress, imposed by Isao — so soft to the touch — felt like a role she hadn’t chosen.

Mizuki would never have imposed her ideals on me, she thought, almost ashamed of the fleeting notion.

"I wonder who I would have become if I’d been born in this time," she said quietly, so as not to disturb the peacefulness of the place.

She turned to Isao, her eyes shining with new determination, searching his gaze for an answer.

"Would you see me the same way if I were... ordinary ? If I didn’t have this incredible story ?"

The question caught him off guard. Was there a reproach in her voice ?

Isao felt the weight of it. In his quest to free Lucille, had he become attached to her — or to what she represented ?

Mizuki watched them discreetly, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of oolong tea. She said nothing, but her gaze rested on Isao, questioning him silently.

You saved her... but will you ever truly understand her ?, her eyes seemed to say, though her lips remained still.