The pen slows.
<...and now that I know she's living here in L Bingo—as someone else or maybe the same person—and that that girl doesn't know me… it just felt cold.>
He lays the pen down. It rolls slightly, then stills.
Leaning back in the reclining chair, Julian tilts his head toward the ceiling. His eyes close. A deep breath rises, fills him, and settles.
The city hums outside, but inside—it's just silence.
Grace stands on the sidewalk, eyes fixed on her phone. The Map app pulses softly in her palm, guiding her gaze upward to a tall glass structure towering above the street.
Her eyes scan the signage near the entrance, and then she sees it—faint lettering above the directory panel
She exhales in quiet affirmation.
"So I've come to the right place."
With a slight tug of her coat, she steps inside.
INT. ELEVATOR – MOMENTS LATER
Grace watches the floor numbers tick upward. Her reflection in the mirrored walls stares back—neat, simple. White T-shirt, soft lavender coat, black pants. Nothing fancy. Just her.
DING. 13F.
The doors part with a hush.
INT. FLOOR 13 HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS
A long corridor stretches out before her, lined with discreet office doors and modest placards. She steps out, glancing left, then right. The air is quiet—sterile, almost.
Her eyes land on a small, polished sign to the right.
→ EG STUDIO
She turns and walks.
Halfway down the hallway, a wide studio door yawns open—inviting, unguarded. Inside: bright, minimalist walls, framed black-and-white portraits, sleek lighting rigs. The contrast is striking—classic charm meets clean, modern lines.
Grace hesitates at the threshold. Then steps in.
"Hello," she says softly, her voice cautious but clear.
"Hello!" comes a voice—cheerful, male, full of ease.
A moment later, an inner door swings open and a man steps out—round-faced, clean-shaven, short-cropped hair like a high school coach, dressed in a denim jacket and black pants. He's tapping through a tablet with focused fingers, barely looking up.
"You must be… Apple Pie?" he asks with a smile, scrolling through his reservation list.
Grace blinks.
"Yes," she replies, a tiny laugh pressing at the edge of her voice. The nickname sounds ridiculous out loud.
Apple Pie. I should've just used my real name, she thinks, biting her cheek to suppress a grin.
"Great," the photographer says, finally looking up from his tablet.
His eyes meet Grace's—and stop.
There's a beat of silence. Too long.
Eugene just stares.
Grace shifts slightly under the weight of his gaze. Something about it feels… off. Not threatening, but too focused. As if he's trying to place her in a memory he can't quite reach.
"Um…" Grace offers an awkward smile, brows raised politely. "Can I take the photos now?"
Eugene blinks, as if yanked back into the present.
"Oh. Yes—of course." He nods quickly, voice snapping back into professionalism. "Please, come this way."
He gestures toward the photography setup—a clean white backdrop, softboxes, and a DSLR mounted on a tripod. As he leads, he glances over his shoulder at her once, then again.
Grace notices.
Is there something on my face? she wonders, brushing her fingers subtly across her cheek as she follows.
The unease flutters in her chest—not strong, but enough to tighten her shoulders.
"You can check the mirror before we start," Eugene says, his tone kind but faintly uneven. There's a catch in it—like he's trying too hard to sound casual.
"Sure. Thanks," Grace nods.
She steps to the full-length mirror beside the setup. Her reflection looks back—neat, composed. Hair fine, collar straight, no smudges or stains. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Behind her, she catches Eugene in the mirror—fiddling with the DSLR, adjusting settings that don't seem especially complicated. He's not clumsy, but there's something hurried in the way he handles the camera. His mouth moves slightly, like he's talking to himself in his head.
Grace risks a glance over her shoulder.
Yep. Flustered. He's definitely flustered.
Grace looks back at the mirror and uncaps the lip oil and applies it in one smooth motion, her expression unreadable in the mirror's glass. Her gaze lingers a moment longer, then she turns away.
That's weird, she thinks.
Something about the air feels too still, too aware. Like she's being seen more than just looked at.
Behind her, Eugene approaches the camera stand, his movements smoother now but still marked by a strange restraint. He adjusts the mount, twisting the knobs with quiet precision, and then meets Grace's eyes.
"You can sit on that chair in the middle," he says gently, motioning to the stool under the soft lights.
"All right." Grace walks over and sits down, legs together, hands resting lightly on her lap. Her posture is calm, composed—she's done this before.
Eugene lowers the camera slightly to align with her seated height. He peers through the viewfinder, fine-tuning the focus. The screen sharpens, and then—
His breath hitches.
There she is, framed in perfect lighting, and it's like staring at a ghost pulled from an old photograph.
No way...
His hands hover uncertainly on the lens.
She looks exactly the same. Hannah. Just like in the photos June showed me.
His brow furrows, not with confusion, but with recognition folding into disbelief. A memory begins to tug at the edge of his thoughts—a name.
Grace Silver.
The name June had mentioned in passing. The girl who resembled Hannah so precisely it had chilled him. The girl who had been in a car accident. The one who fell into a coma.
No. It can't be…
And yet… she's sitting right in front of him.
Breathing. Blinking. Alive.
He lowers the camera and looks up. Really looks. Grace meets his gaze, head tilted slightly, eyes calm but curious. Sitting so still under the soft white lights, she could almost be part of the image herself—timeless, suspended in a frame.
Eugene swallows, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face.
Grace shifts slightly, the air in the studio thickening as the photographer's gaze lingers longer than it should have.
Something about the way he looks at her—unblinking, too still—sends a flicker of discomfort through her chest.
"Umm… can I take the photos now?" she asks, masking her unease with an awkward smile.
Eugene blinks, as if snapped out of a trance.
"Oh—yes, of course," he says quickly, nodding. "Please, come this way."
He turns and begins leading her to the studio area at the back. The polished wood floor gives way to a soft gray rug, and professional lights stand on either side like sentinels. As they walk, Grace notices him glancing over his shoulder—not once, but several times.
Is there something on my face? she wonders, the uneasy feeling crawling higher in her chest. Her fingers twitch, resisting the urge to touch her cheek.
"You can check the mirror before we begin," Eugene offers, his voice kind but slightly unsteady.
"Sure, thanks," Grace replies, nodding politely.
She steps in front of the tall mirror beside the equipment rack. Her reflection stares back—no makeup, just sunscreen, slightly flushed cheeks, lip oil a little faded from the walk over.
She looks natural. Unfiltered.
But pretty.
Behind her in the mirror, Eugene is fussing with his DSLR, adjusting dials and turning lenses with exaggerated focus, with a clearly flustered look.
His brows are drawn together, and there's a tension in his shoulders that doesn't quite match the calm professionalism he's trying to project.
Grace quickly looks away, uncapping a tube of lip oil and dabbing it lightly across her lips. She presses them together and glances back at her reflection. Everything looks fine.
That's weird, she thinks, stepping away from the mirror.
Eugene approaches just then, camera now mounted securely on the tripod. He gives her a warm smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"You can sit on that chair in the middle," he says, gesturing to a single stool bathed in soft light.
"All right," Grace replies, her voice calm but measured.
Eugene adjusts the camera lens, lowering it slightly to match Grace's sitting height. He fine-tunes the frame—meticulous, precise—until it aligns perfectly with her posture. Then he leans forward and peers through the viewfinder.
And pauses.
His breath catches.
No way.
There she is, sitting quietly under soft lights, her expression calm and unaware. But to Eugene, it feels like déjà vu with a pulse. She looks exactly like Hannah—the girl from the photos June had shown him.
The same shape of her eyes.
The same tilt of her jaw.
Even the same slightly parted lips.
Eugene's brows pull together as if trying to will logic back into place.
What is going on? he thinks, his pulse quickening.
Then a thought strikes him, sharp as a jolt.