With little rest, Charles spent every hour of his days in the search for The Lady, yet progress was stunted.
Days went by, but there was no result.
Anxiety was ripe in the heart of The Photographer.
Lately, he had begun suspecting that he was being followed. It showed in the way he carried himself, the way he walked.
Even now, with the cream umbrella in hand and the familiar satchel hanging from his shoulder, as he walked through the streets, he meticulously observed his surroundings.
He had this feeling that the gazes were only sharply directed at him.
But that was no excuse for where his steps were headed.
Once again, he found himself in the same alleyway where he had pictured the dead girl. It felt like a calling, as if he was being pulled there by some unknown force.
Why he had done what he had done that day, as well as why he was back, felt like questions for the highly educated.
