Tristan Vol. 4 Chapter 3

By: Asa Montreaux

-Tristan

The hum of the plane was a steady lull as I leaned my head against the window, watching the clouds stretch endlessly beneath me. Paris was only hours away, but my mind was still in Spain. Barcelona, Madrid, Valencia—the textures of those cities lingered in my thoughts, layered like the colors in my photographs. I closed my eyes and let the images form: the flickering streetlights in the Gothic Quarter, the children laughing on Valencia’s beaches, the intense, burning eyes of a flamenco dancer lost in her art.

It had been a trip unlike any other, not just for the photographs but for what they meant. Every journey had led me here—to this moment, to this life, to Maisie waiting for me in Paris. I thought about how my photography had evolved, how each frame captured more than just a scene; it held a feeling, a heartbeat. I had spent years chasing perfect shots, but Spain had reminded me that imperfection had its own beauty. A shadow out of place, a blur in movement, a moment caught just before it disappeared—those were the ones that mattered.

The plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle, and I moved through the airport in a haze. The familiar cool air of Paris wrapped around me as I stepped outside, hailing a cab. The driver barely spoke, but the city spoke for him. The streets unfolded before me in quiet familiarity, the boulevards bustling with life, the Seine reflecting golden hues from the late afternoon light. Home.

Maisie was waiting at the apartment, her face lighting up as I walked in.

"Tu es de retour," she said softly, wrapping her arms around me. "Comment était le voyage?"

"Indescriptible," I murmured, pressing my lips to her temple. "Tu m'as manqué."

"Toi aussi," she said, pulling back just enough to study my face. "You look different. More at peace."

"I think I am."

After dropping my bag, I went straight to my darkroom, eager to develop some of the film I had taken. The room was dimly lit, the smell of chemicals familiar and grounding. I slipped a roll of film into the developer, watching as the images slowly emerged. There was something magical about it, about watching an image come to life in a way that digital could never replicate. The weight of a real photograph in my hands made everything tangible, made every moment more real.

For the next few hours, I lost myself in the process. I hung prints to dry, carefully examining the contrast and exposure. Some shots I knew would remain untouched—perfect as they were. Others, I moved to my computer for final adjustments.

Sitting at my desk, I opened Photoshop, bringing up an image of a Barcelona street at dusk. I played with the shadows, deepening the blacks, pulling out hidden details in the fading light. I adjusted another—an abstract piece, where movement blurred figures into a dance of color and shape. This was where photography became something else, something more than reality.

Maisie joined me, leaning against the doorway.

"How’s it going?"

"Almost done. Just a few more touches."

She walked over, studying the screen. "That one’s my favorite," she said, pointing to an image of the Sagrada Familia, the light hitting its façade in just the right way to make it look almost unreal.

"Then that one goes in the show," I said.

By the time I was finished, it was late. We had only an hour before we had to leave for the gallery. Maisie had already laid out her dress—a deep emerald that caught the light just so. I watched as she got ready, applying soft touches of makeup, slipping into the dress with the ease of someone who belonged in a place like this.

I pulled on my own outfit—a tailored suit, dark and simple, with just enough detail to show care. I adjusted my cufflinks, feeling the weight of the night ahead settle over me.

"Ready?" Maisie asked, stepping beside me, her reflection glowing in the mirror.

"More than ever."

A black car was waiting outside, sleek and polished. The driver opened the door, and we slid in, the city lights blurring past as we made our way to the gallery.

As we approached, I felt the anticipation build. This was it. The culmination of years of work, of countless moments frozen in time, now displayed for the world to see. Maisie reached for my hand, and I squeezed hers gently, grounding myself in that simple touch.

Tonight was not just about the photographs. It was about everything they represented—every step that had led me here, every choice, every journey. And now, standing on the edge of it all, I was ready to share those stories with the world.