"He sat at the edge of the bar, skimming through the menu in search of—I presumed—the least expensive dish."

The barkeeper's monologue continued over the increasingly passionate music of the gramophone.

"I had never seen him before, and that was rare around these parts."

The wide shot from behind showed the entire bar with The Photographer sitting at the edge of the frame to the right, his auburn hair setting him apart from everyone else.

"Most of my patrons were bourgeoisie, but this one was different."

Unlike others, who chatted and enjoyed themselves, he sat quietly.

"His eyes were baggy, and he looked slightly under the weather."

The Photographer raised his hand.

"His voice sounded rough, as if he hadn't used it much, as he ordered the food. It was the cheapest item on the menu and quickest to make."

One of the men at the bar, dressed in a beige suit, banged his pint.

"One more, barkeep!"

The well-kempt bartender turned away from The Photographer and gave a nod.

While holding his leather satchel close to him, the latter looked around.

The patrons—everyone but him—were dressed in tailored suits, which were peculiar enough to be vastly unfamiliar.

Their necks were an inch too long, which their collars dug into. Their bow ties were slightly too high up their throats and perfumed until they could smell nothing but the irritating smell.

He had never seen such attire worn casually.

Les Vigne filled another pint of beer for the gentlemen before bringing out The Photographer's order.

His eyes were stretched wide. That's why he always kept them moving so as not to scare away his customers.

He crossed his arms and discreetly listened to the group's conversation.

"Did you hear," one of the drunks asked, "about the De Roschillian family?"

Averie clicked his tongue.

'The subtitles say 'Rotchillian family.' Who wrote them?'

He paid attention to detail, and he hated it when others did not.

No matter his feelings, the scene continued.

One of the others put down his tankard. "The old man is sick, they say."

"He is dying, I heard."

"Good riddance," another man muttered. "De Roschillians are no saints. I'll be happy to see them buried and burned."

Averie raised a brow.

'They have spelled it fine here. What was the issue earlier then?'

He felt somewhat pacified.

'At least, it won't repeat itself.'

"Shh! Don't say that out loud."

Averie appreciated this scene.

While filming, he had felt it was a bit too bland. It was frustrating enough that he had asked Director Groux to let the actors improvise a little.

Thankfully, the director took it seriously and revised the script. Of course, the change wasn't vastly different.

The wide-eyed gaze of Les returned to The Photographer.

"Unlike the rest of my patrons, he was not dressed smartly, nor was his hair cut neatly. They were a faded shade of auburn, long and tied at the nape."

Although parted neatly, it still left a slovenly impression.

"His skin looked pale and blotchy with red. He was, in every sense, different."

Les's eyes turned to the satchel, which seemed to be holding something heavy and hard.

Curious, he approached the man.

"What else can I get you?"

The Photographer turned away from the cold saucy pasta he was absentmindedly poking at.

"The Mistress wasn't known for providing overly appetizing meals, but it wasn't awful enough to be ignored."

"Nothing, thank you."

One of the patrons at the other end put down his soup spoon and washed the meal down with his drink.

He wiped his hands on a napkin provided to him and turned a dial on the old gramophone. With the volume raised, the music became clearer. It sent a wave of cheer through the pub.

"You don't look like you're from here," Les continued, peering into the amber eyes of his new customer.

He studied the man as he waited for an explanation that never came.

"We're not too far from the border." He folded his arms and leaned over the bar, tapping the rim of the glass behind the counter. "Are you travelling there, leaving the country?"

His narrowed gaze was stuck to The Photographer's satchel.

Like a doll with springs in its neck, his head bobbled.

"Visiting."

The man didn't say anything. His eyes remained contemplative and disinterested.

Les lowered his voice. Over the sound of music, their conversation became difficult to decipher.

"What could you be carrying?"

It wasn't how conversations progressed in a pub, and they certainly never sounded like an inquiry.

The shot showed the side profiles of the pair as their faces remained inches away—one seated and one leaning over the counter, one disinterested and one frowning.

The amber, unfocused eyes of the man turned to his satchel. With spidery fingers, he opened the flap and flashed its contents.

"A camera."

As he said, inside was an ancient-looking machine. It was needlessly complicated with switches and pipes protruding from its surface.

"An old machine like that…" Les groaned. "Does it even work?"

The man didn't seem sure of it himself as he answered, "It does."

He closed the flap and returned to his meal. He didn't know whether to call it breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

"He was a peculiar man. No matter how many times I talked to him, he felt ever absent."

The Photographer finished his meal, scraping every bit of the sauce.

"He asked me about accommodations in the area, insisting on 'cheaper the better.' I didn't need to be told."

Les asked him about drinks, and he shook his head.

"What about a job?" the barkeeper asked. "Whatever you have won't last."

He returned after sending his dish to the dishwasher.

"There's not a lot of demand, but you can work as a photographer on upper floors."

The auburn-haired man removed his spectacles and shook his head.

Les looked up while wiping the counter.

"Why?"

He didn't answer.

"He said he could sketch. I didn't understand why he would carry around a camera when he didn't want to photograph."

As Les emerged from the kitchen, he caught sight of the door shutting. The Photographer wasn't in his seat, but he had left the exact amount he owed on the counter.

"I never caught his name, but I thought he would visit again."

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