He wasn’t accusing me. He was observing.
“I will allow that,” he said. “Once.”
Once.
He walked away again, already done with the conversation.
I stared at the screen, heart thudding, adrenaline humming low and steady beneath my ribs. I hadn’t been perfect. But I hadn’t hidden either.
After marking out, and downloading the ones he’d asked for, I sent them to him, then resumed paging through the other images for more that could work. For the first time since I arrived in Paris, I didn’t feel like I was borrowing confidence from the city or my camera or anyone else.
Accomplishment stealthed in like a thief or a latecomer to the theater, eager to settle in but not distract. René had been satisfied with some of the shots.
Thatwas a win.
One I’d earned.
But it also dropped another challenge in my lap. I wanted to impress him.
Granted, that might be impossible, but never let it be said I didn’t have goals.
The next few days blurred into motion.
René didn’t give me time to bask in anything resembling satisfaction. Tuesday started with a different assignment before I’d even finished my first coffee.
Wednesday was the one that broke me a little.
René sent me out alone with a location and a single line of instruction written on a torn corner of paper.
Rue des Rosiers. Noon. Don’t be late.
That was it.
No subject. No angle. No explanation. I arrived early—because of course I did—and spent the extra ten minutes watching the street wake into itself. Foot traffic thickened. Shops opened. A man argued with his delivery driver. A woman adjusted a scarf she didn’t need. Life layered itself naturally, the way Paris always did if you let it.
I started shooting immediately.
It felt good. Clean. Purposeful. I followed motion instead of staging it, caught hands exchanging money, shoulders brushing too close, a laugh that cracked open at the wrong moment. I feltin it—the way René always talked about without ever naming.
By the time I returned to the Daily, I was quietly pleased with myself.
That should have been my first warning.
René didn’t sit when he reviewed the images. He stood behind my chair, arms folded, weight shifted back on his heels like he was already done with this.
Too done.
He said nothing for a long time.
Then: “Again.”
I turned. “Again?”
“You missed it.”
“I didn’t—” I stopped myself before the defense slipped out. Tried again. “What did I miss?”
He tapped the screen once.
