Contemplation.

The Photographer was tied to that word.

Thousands of hours he had spent contemplating. At first, when he considered himself a child, it had been enjoyable.

Contemplating ideas, colors, and compositions had been a joy to him.

Then, it grew stale. Contemplation became a source of his agony. It became a tiring habit.

Those emotions and that journey could be glimpsed through the eyes of the man as he stood smoking a humble pipe.

The full shot of his figure, leaning against the stone balustrade of the balcony, made him look lonelier. And the close-up made him look sadder.

There was little movement in his expression. Even though he wasn't, it felt like he was speaking.

The camera panned down to show his shadow. It was cast by an artificial sun, yet it wasn't fake. It was real.

It was sharp with clear borders.

Unlike its owner, it didn't feel as lonely. It wasn't sad. It wasn't tired.

It was, perhaps ironically, deeply enjoying the activity Charles had grown to despise.

Contemplation.

With a pipe between its lips, it looked to its left and then to its right. Like a gentlemanly smoker in 19th-century England, it released a puff of smoke with arrogant poise.

It didn't bear any of the sorrow of its owner, but it did bear a slyness not seen in Charles.

With its lanky arm stretching to distance the pipe, it swept its gaze across the estate.

There was the gate, the gardens, the many rooms, and the annexes.

Travelling languidly, its gaze halted at the statue garden. The pipe moving towards its lips paused. It crossed its feet and leaned over the railing.

Something had caught its eye.

The camera panned up slightly.

Next to his crossed legs, through the gap between a pair of balusters, a figure could be seen examining the statues.

Carved in the balusters framing the figure was the name of the family—De Roschillian.

The shadow seemed fixated on the figure.

The camera panned up.

Charles was looking at Marianne. There was no strong emotion in his eyes. He was zoning out.

"Despite the risks," Les Vigne's monologue continued, "the proposal didn't sound awfully bad to Charles."

He rubbed the pipe against his lower lip in contemplation. Yet even this mundane action seemed entirely different when the camera cut to his shadow.

'It's scheming,' thought Emmanuel Echeverri.

He was awed.

'It's the same action, same movement… But it's—I don't know—it feels different.'

He was utterly lost in the world of Lady Ethereal, its details, and its forms of artistry.

He knew it was difficult to film a shadow. It was hard to make it do whatever the director wanted it to do.

'The actor must be dedicated.'

And the unknown actor on the screen was exactly that.

His face was lifeless, but his shadow was full of expression.

Watching that scene, Emmanuel felt like the film was coming together.

"Money, a nice house, and even a lovely wife… It was an offer no outsider to The City could refuse. What Jacquet promised was a dream—a life."

He could store away his travelling boots and settle down. His chase—something futile and abstract—could finally come to an end.

"Won't it be nice?" he whispered, his eyes filled with exhaustion. "Can't we play house?"

He could feel the weight of the bag weighing down his shoulder, but he didn't want to look at it.

'I could photograph her and only her.'

He wouldn't take his eyes off the woman. Without saying a word, they seemed to be communicating with the audience.

There were no subtitles, no lip movement, and no voice. Yet Emmanuel could hear the dialogue.

'Won't it be nice to frame it by the bed?'

Charles's back looked lonelier and his shoulders dejected.

'Won't it be nice to love her?'

"We could be happy."

'I could finally give up.'

Director Corsini couldn't frown more intensely if he tried. Whatever it was that the actor on the screen was showing him, it was phenomenal.

If he had to put it into words, he could explain it as 'He was speaking the language of empathy.'

That was the only explanation for the unspoken dialogue he could almost hear.

To say he was impressed was an understatement.

Years later, a publication would go on to quote him: "It was madness."

But in the moment, he could only praise the actor.

Charles turned around and left the balcony, having made his choice.

As the door closed behind him, the camera cut to Marianne, who was looking up at the sun.

It was bright enough to seem real and real enough to have a solar halo.

The camera zoomed in on her warm eyes before suddenly zooming out. The eyes on the screen looked cold, and the sun wasn't as blinding.

The scene had seamlessly transitioned.

The pair of eyes belonged to Jacquet, and the painting of the sun he was observing belonged to his father.

The door to the balcony opened and closed with little noise.

"Is it not beautiful?" Jacquet asked without taking his eyes off the painting. "This is the real sun, not the one we've grown accustomed to."

He glanced at Charles.

"Well," he corrected himself, "the one I have grown accustomed to."

He walked up to the bed, studied his sleeping father, then addressed his guest solemnly.

"Have you decided?"

The Photographer nodded, the strap of his satchel cutting sharply into his shoulder. "I—"

The scene sharply cut to a wide shot of two tiny figures walking through a hallway with humongous white pillars every few steps.

"—am glad that you accepted the offer," Jacquet said.

He looked behind at Charles, who was following him with a journal in hand.

"It mentions a woman," he continued. "Apparently, he met her when he was travelling the world in his youth."

The hallway portraits became stranger as they continued.

"He didn't know her, nor did he have a chance to talk to her." The whole thing seemed unbelievable to him. "His writings describe her in very obtuse terms."

"Her name?"

Jacquet's feet abruptly halted.

"He only ever called her The Lady."

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