It was a strange offer—as odd as The City itself.

Charles de Roschillian.

Yes, it sounded nice.

"Oh, but you won't inherit De Roschillian name," Jacquet whispered in his strained voice. "Neither will your children."

Even so, the offer was too good to be true.

"She is a beauty."

Jacquet nodded his head at the woman tending to the garden of statues.

"There isn't a man in this city, bachelor or married, who'd refuse a chance to court her."

He walked up to his guest, leaned forward, and continued in a lifeless tone.

"There isn't a man in this city, bachelor or married, who'd refuse the goodwill of a De Roschillian."

Bland as those words were, paired with a cold gaze, they sounded ominous.

Charles met his eyes. His hand shot up, ending beside Jacquet's head. In it, he held an old pipe.

"May I?" he asked unflinchingly.

Jacquet eyed him before correcting his posture.

"Why, of course."

His hand was flat and held wide to gesture towards the door leading to the balcony.

Charles gave a nod and walked past.

Jacquet didn't move, but his calculating gaze followed the man all the way.

Now on the balcony, Charles closed the door behind him. He hefted the pipe in his mouth.

It was distinctly charred black with the fatter end chipped.

While observing the little stone balcony, he retrieved a tiny silver box from his satchel.

It contained what looked like a crushed mixture of leaves and herbs, which he added to his pipe. With a firm thumb, he pressed the contents with measured force.

His gaze wandered towards the window Jacquet liked to lean against. He had closed it, either out of courtesy or a distaste for pipes.

Charles closed the silver box and flipped it in his hand. Sliding open the bottom revealed a compartment separate from the upper one.

It had a little tube sticking out of it with a dial attached. He pressed on it, careful not to apply too much pressure.

A drop of sparkling liquid poured through the tube, and as it seeped into the contents of the pipe, a blaze erupted.

It lasted for a second before turning to embers.

Charles's eyes closed.

The first hit was always the warmest.

'And the most pacifying,' Averie thought, closing his eyes in tandem with his on-screen persona.

The detailed scene took him back.

It was a surprisingly vivid memory. Then again, every memory related to acting was like that for him.

He couldn't remember what he had eaten for breakfast or the name of his first love, but every little detail about every little project he had ever undertaken was engraved in glistening ink on the eroding walls of his peculiar mind.

It was a rainy night, and Averie remembered thinking that the patter of the light shower hitting against the glass window was awfully calming.

It went perfectly with the warm cup of coffee in his hands.

The house belonged to Director Groux, and the kind woman asking him if he needed anything was his wife.

The couple had invited him for dinner, and Averie wasn't known to decline anything free—even if it meant Hyerin and Min-Ha had to dine on unsalted fish in the closest pub.

"The description of the pipe is… familiar," Averie began without so much as a glance to the man sitting across the table.

Mrs. Groux was busy cleaning the dishes in the kitchen. She had cleverly turned on the music, and the little smile on her lips seemed to be in praise of herself.

"Am I right to assume that it is the same pipe seen in one of the earlier scenes?"

Semi-reflected in the window, Averie watched as the director thoughtfully nodded his head. The gesture was half-hearted. He wasn't admitting or denying it.

The actor's hand brushed against the freshly printed script lying on the table. It was warm to the touch.

"No explanation is provided in the script," he continued as a raindrop slid down the cheek of his sickly reflection, almost as if it was weeping in agony.

"Would you like chocolat, Mr. Auclair?" Mrs. Groux asked from the kitchen, her accent lost in her kindness.

"I'm fine, thank you," the actor answered.

He took a sip of his coffee.

"How did the pipe of the hobo introduced outside the inspection gate end up in the hands of The Photographer?"

"Curious, isn't it?"

"Very." Once again, he looked at his reflection. "Why leave the explanation to something so curious off-screen?"

"How many do you suppose will notice that it's the same pipe?"

It was so obvious that it wasn't even a question.

"Only a handful in a room full of hundreds."

The director tapped his cup of coffee.

"Like these rare beans, such small details are meant for those who can spot them. There is satisfaction in unravelling the mysteries of a film."

He shook his cup and watched as the rippling liquid settled down.

"You have to be a good audience."

The lamp hanging over his balding head shone brightly.

"Because we are good storytellers."

The two sets of coffee mugs cast two distinct reflections.

Two suns. One rippled; the other didn't.

"These little things are my gift to the audience." Before Averie could ask what that meant, the man continued, "Often, we show them a story. Not many films allow the spectator to form their own sequence of events based on something… minuscule."

He stirred his coffee.

"The films that do allow such participation either make it a central point or limit it to paltry backstories."

The rain was starting to let up.

"But this film is different. It must raise questions and provide thrill for those who can spot these details."

"When the film ends," Averie asked, "will they reach a united conclusion? Or will they debate?"

The director cracked a smile. "I would be glad either way."

Like the rain, the memory, too, became distant.

Averie opened his eyes; simultaneously, The Photographer opened his.

They had spent minutes in their minds, but only seconds had passed in reality.

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