The next moment, Peter woke up with a start, his heart pounding and his breathing ragged. He lunged towards the window, ignoring the fact that his body was still in a panic. His head was in complete chaos, and the pain from the nightmare he had just experienced still lingered. He pushed himself up on his elbows, then sat up, and quickly looked around.
Jennings sat on the bed next to him, his hands moving confidently despite the bright glow of the night light, reloading his camera, as always, with concentration and silence. The sounds of his actions, the clicks of the shutter and the mechanical movements, on the contrary, created a contrast with the chaos that raged in Peter's mind.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Jennings looked up, noticing Peter was staring into space. His question was asked calmly, but there was a hint of worry in his voice. "Why are you screaming?"
But Peter couldn't answer. He felt his throat tighten, and fear gripped his body. He looked away from Jennings and walked to the window without saying a word. Fog and cold wind were pouring into the room, and the street outside was empty and dead. Peter looked out into the dark motel yard, where the streetlights flickered dimly, illuminating the rain marks on the ground. He felt as if something invisible was standing outside the windows, something sinister that could catch up with him again.
Jennings, picking up his camera and taking a few shots on autopilot, noticed that Peter looked... lost. He didn't know what had happened to the boy, but he knew it wasn't just a nightmare.
"Have you been having some kind of nightmare, Peter?" Jennings asked softly, coming closer and leaning against the back of the chair. "I think you need to talk."
Peter continued to stare out the window, his gaze empty and distant. It seemed as if the world around him had ceased to exist, as had his body, which stood in the room, but his thoughts were somewhere far away. He did not notice how Jennings stood up and came to him, looking at him with caution. The boy looked as if he was being sucked into something invisible, something that did not give him peace.
Jennings stood next to him, studying his face, trying to figure out what was going on in Peter's head. He knew he'd been through something serious, but maybe it was just a nightmare that could be forgotten if the boy would just talk. Jennings decided to break the silence.
"You're okay, Peter?" he asked, leaning toward him. "Do you want to talk about it? What was that nightmare you had?"
Peter didn't answer right away. His fingers nervously clutched the edge of the curtain until he finally spoke.
"It was a bad dream, Jennings. About some Jerome, about Delia York and... and about their mysterious mission in Rome."
Jennings raised his eyebrows in surprise, not expecting to hear such a strange story.
"Jerome and Delia York? That sounds like a detective story," Jennings said with a smile, trying to make the situation more tense with a little humor. "Do you really believe these stories about secret agents and mysterious missions?"
Peter remained silent, not answering. He continued to stare out the window, as if trying to return there, to his nightmare. For him, everything he had experienced in that dream was too real, too alive. He could almost feel the cold that penetrated their hearts, and that look that he could not forget - a look full of pain and hopelessness.
"It wasn't just a dream, Jennings," he said at last, his voice quiet but firm. "It was a warning. I saw them... I saw them moving through Rome as if their mission was more important than anything else. And every step they took could cost them their lives.
Jennings looked at Peter with mild surprise, but something in his eyes had changed. The boy was obviously deeply troubled and felt something, despite his youth. His words carried weight, even if Jennings didn't know what he was supposed to believe.
"Listen," he said, trying to make the conversation more serious, "maybe this is just your imagination, an overload? You've been through a lot lately, and if you think about it, that could have caused this dream. Now you just have to calm down.
Peter looked up, and there was something in his eyes that couldn't be made up. Jennings felt the sincerity of it hurt him.
"No, I saw it happen," Peter whispered. "They weren't just walking, they were hiding something. And every step could have been their last if one of them had made a mistake. Delia was in danger... and Jerome, he was trying to protect her.
Jennings thought for a moment, then patted Peter's shoulder in a fatherly manner and headed out of the room. Peter followed, still thinking about the nightmare that was still haunting him. He knew Jennings was trying to ease his worries, but there was something inside that made him remain wary.
As they descended the stairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and scrambled eggs greeted them in the motel lobby. The door to the buffet room opened before them. Several guests were already seated at tables, eating leisurely breakfasts and chatting. Peter couldn't shake the feeling that this entire cozy, unremarkable corner of the motel world was just a facade. There was something murky and disturbing hidden inside.
Jennings, noticing his concern, shrugged his shoulders and said with a smile:
"Well, Peter, are you feeling better now? Come on, don't worry. I see you're not fully awake yet. You just need to eat a couple of omelettes and it'll all go away."
Peter reluctantly agreed and headed for the table with food, but his eyes continued to dart around the room, looking for something that could explain all his nightmares. Jennings, taking the plate, winked at him and added:
"When I was your age, I also often suffered from all sorts of strange dreams. My grandfather said that it was the result of too many little thoughts before sleep. You had a busy night, with investigations and a bunch of strange plots, and now traces remain in your sleep."
Peter tried to smile back, but it didn't help - the feeling of strange tension in his chest wouldn't go away. He raised the spoon with porridge to his lips with difficulty and almost choked.
"I know it's strange," Jennings continued, oblivious to the boy's change of mood. "But you're not alone here. We're all with you."
"I understand," Peter said, though his voice sounded unsure. He couldn't dwell on this thought any longer. Somehow, his intuition told him that he would have to figure out what was happening himself. Maybe it had all been a nightmare. Maybe it had just been an overly vivid dream that made reality feel so strange.
Meanwhile, Jennings continued to talk. He began to share his successes, enjoying every word like a true storyteller. He was on a roll, radiating a confidence and enthusiasm that seemed to infect even Peter, despite his anxiety about the night's events.
"You have no idea, Peter," Jennings said, washing down his omelette with coffee, "how lucky I am! We agreed on a contract with this newspaper, and in a few days I managed to film all the most interesting events in the life of one major personality. New York, as you understand, is not just a city, but a whole universe full of possibilities. Take this new mayor, for example, do you know who he is?
Peter tried to concentrate, but his thoughts kept returning to the strange dream that had tormented him. He wanted to forget about it, but something was pulling him toward the memories. The mysterious picture kept spinning in his head, and all the events seemed like part of some complex, intricate puzzle. However, he could not completely abstract himself from Jennings's conversation.
"No, I don't know," Peter said, deciding to at least keep the conversation going a little. "Who is this mayor?"
Jennings, not noticing how he was drawing the boy into his stories, continued:
"This guy is such a brave man, a fighter for justice! He is everything that newspapers dream of. You see, I was able to get to several of his events, and it was amazing! I photographed him at meetings, even at a press conference, when he was surrounded by journalists with cameras. Oh, you should have seen how he carried himself, how stylish and confident! So, I sent these pictures to the editorial office, and they immediately offered a contract for a whole month, and, imagine, an advance of ten thousand dollars in cash. Can you imagine?"
Peter just nodded, trying not to show that his thoughts were occupied with something else. The amount was impressive, but fragments of phrases from that strange letter he had read the day before continued to sound in his head, and he could not get rid of the feeling that something in this world was completely wrong.
"That's wonderful, Jennings," Peter said with an effort, trying to find some kind of foothold in this conversation.
Jennings, noticing that the boy was not entirely absorbed in his story, softened his intonation a little:
"Look, Peter, you know, you probably think a lot about what happened in Rome. I understand. But believe me, weird dreams like yours are common for people who have been through stress. You just got back from some mysterious mission, and now this. Maybe you should think about something more real. I can help you with that, if you want."
Peter thought about it, but didn't answer right away. He didn't want to tell Jennings that he couldn't forget the events of his dream. He was sure there was something important hidden there, but how could he explain it to an adult who he didn't think could understand?
"Maybe you're right," he finally answered, "it's just strange that everything intersects so much. The dream, the events... it all somehow doesn't add up."
Jennings winked and, pouring more coffee into his cup, continued:
"You know, Peter, such moments happen. Life is full of mysteries, and you are a smart guy, you will sort everything out. The main thing is not to stop and move forward. For example, I never think about what is happening in my photographs or dreams. I just shoot, get my payment, and live on."
Peter chuckled, but deep down he knew his thoughts wouldn't go away so easily. The riddles, the dreams, the strange connections - none of it was just a coincidence. And at some point he realized that his mission in Rome, as well as his strange dreams, had much more meaning than they seemed at first glance.
Meanwhile, Jennings, having finished breakfast, rose from the table, brushed the crumbs from his sleeves and said with a smile:
"I'm going to the photo studio. Do you want to join me, Peter? It will be a useful pastime for you."
Peter, after some hesitation, finally agreed. He didn't mind spending time with Jennings, even though thoughts of strange dreams and mysteries left behind from their mission in Rome did not leave him. But perhaps a change of scenery would be useful.
They left the motel room and stepped outside. The sunlight was falling on the city, and everything seemed alive-the bustling street, the cries of street vendors, the smell of fresh bread coming from a nearby bakery. Along the sidewalk, under the large shadows of the trees, people were scurrying about their business. Peter glanced around, but his attention was drawn to other figures ahead.
A group of people, all armed with cameras, stood on the corner, laughing and taking pictures of each other, posing and making funny faces. They were tourists, like Jennings, intent on finding interesting shots.
"Look," said Jennings, laughing slightly, "real brothers in the profession."
He took out his camera, snapped a couple of shots and walked up to them.
"Hey, guys," he called out with a smile, "let me take a few pictures too. We're all professionals here, right?"
The tourists turned to look at him, and Jennings deftly took a few pictures, capturing the moment of their joy and delight. Peter watched the scene with a smile, he liked how confident Jennings felt in this environment, how easily and naturally he conducted conversations with strangers. Sometimes it seemed to him that Jennings could find a common language with anyone, regardless of their mood or background.
After a few minutes of friendly exchange of shots and jokes, the group of tourists dispersed, and Jennings, satisfied with his photos, returned to Peter.
"These guys are clearly a photographer's cup of tea," he said, taking his camera off his shoulder. "But work is work. Come on, we need to get to the studio, there's no time to waste."
They continued down the street, and Peter, thinking about how quickly Jennings had won his sympathy, found himself thinking back to Rome and his experiences. He might not have wanted to figure it out that much, but his intuition told him that everything that was happening was connected, and these strange events were not a coincidence.
As he approached the studio, Jennings looked out the window and sighed.
"Excellent," he said, opening the door. "There's good lighting here, and that's all we need."
The studio was small but cozy. There were cameras, tripods, reflectors everywhere, and soft light coming through the windows, creating ideal conditions for shooting. Peter was a little tense, feeling alien in this professional place, but Jennings immediately took control of the situation.
"You can work here a little, Peter, if you want. I'll get everything ready, and you watch how it's done."
Peter nodded, though he wasn't sure. He'd been intrigued by the idea of trying his hand at being a photographer, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn't help but feel out of place, as if his presence here might upset the fragile order of this world.
Jennings continued to work with the equipment, checking each element in place. The silent hum of the cameras, the sounds of the lighting adjustments, and his focus on the smallest details created an atmosphere of professionalism and discipline. Peter, feeling a little out of place, began to wander around the studio, trying to get used to this strange, artificial space where everything seemed to be created with millimeter precision.
The studio wasn't just a place for taking pictures, it looked like a stage for a play. Peter noticed that the walls were filled with photographs taken for various projects, but one of them immediately caught his attention.
It was a photograph of a little girl. She was standing against an old wooden stair railing, wearing a brown dress, with her long black hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. There were no bright colors or flashy details in the picture, but the girl's eyes were so alive that it seemed as if she was about to speak.
Peter stopped, unable to tear himself away from the photograph. For some reason he felt something strange, as if this girl was familiar to him. He stood there for a long time, squinting, trying to decipher her face, until he heard Jennings come up behind him and speak.
"Are you looking at her? This is a photo taken for a movie. We were doing a photo shoot for the cover. The girl was a model, very cute, but not one of those who likes to sit in front of the camera."
Peter continued to look at the photograph, and there was a barely perceptible question in his voice:
"Who is she, really? Why does she look... familiar?"
Jennings slowed his actions for a moment, as if thinking, and then chuckled.
"Are you serious? This is just a regular model for a shoot. I think you're overthinking it."
But Peter still stood there, unable to tear his eyes away from the girl in the picture. He felt again that strange chill that had haunted him since the morning after he had woken up from that terrible dream. He couldn't understand why this girl seemed so familiar to him. Something in her gaze, her posture, even her simple dress made his heart beat faster.
"Are you sure it's just a model?" Peter asked, trying to hide his excitement.
Jennings looked at him with a smile, as if it was all just a game, and shrugged.
"I know what I'm talking about, Peter. She was just an actress, for this type of shoot," he said, adjusting the camera again and checking the light levels. "Believe me, there are no secret stories behind this. It's just a photo shoot."
But Peter couldn't calm down. He was still standing in front of the photograph, his gaze fixed on the girl with long black hair standing on the stairs. She seemed so familiar to him that it was hard to believe that he couldn't recognize her. But his thoughts were jumbled like a whirlpool, and Peter couldn't find an explanation for this strange feeling.
"Jennings, can you tell me more about the shoot for this movie?" Peter, trying to clear his thoughts, finally looked up and addressed the photographer. "I'm curious, because you said it was for the cover of the movie."
Jennings, still manipulating the camera, glanced at Peter and shrugged.
"It wasn't a full-length movie, Peter. It was made for TV, you know?" He chuckled, adjusting the lens. "It was a typical made-for-TV horror flick. Nothing special, let's say. They played it on TV a couple of months ago. Just a cheap movie, you know, with a two-million-dollar budget. I was hired to take a few promo shots for the cover, that's all.
Peter frowned, his thoughts returning to the girl in the photograph. Horror? Cheap TV? Somehow, that didn't add up to how the picture looked. The girl in the photo didn't look like a typical cheap movie actress, she was different. That look in her eyes, that slightly mysterious air... He felt like something was wrong.
"Who else was involved in the filming?" Peter asked, trying to figure out if there was anyone else who could be connected to this strange feeling. He couldn't explain it, but there was a growing feeling inside him that all of this was somehow connected to what had happened to him in Rome, to Delia's disappearance.
Jennings looked at Peter again, but now his face became a little more serious.
"You know, Peter, there's hardly anything interesting for you here. Basically, they were filming a couple of newcomers, and the girl in the photo was just a stand-in for a more famous actress who couldn't film for some reason. Nothing special, really. And horror movies for TV are a whole other story. Lots of cheap special effects, no deep plot, everything is as usual. But work is work."
Peter nodded thoughtfully, but he still felt like there was something he couldn't quite place. He didn't know why the girl in the photograph kept popping into his head, why her image felt so familiar. A two-million-dollar horror movie-that sounded plausible, of course. But his gut instinct told him that something was wrong.
He looked at the photograph again. His fingers almost involuntarily reached out to the edge of the picture, as if he wanted to look at it from other angles, to try to find some details that could explain this feeling.
"Jennings, are you sure this girl is an actress?" Peter asked, unable to hide his concern. "She looks so... different. She's not just a model for a shoot, is she?"
The boy didn't even notice how Jennings came up behind him and said, almost carelessly:
"I understand why you are so upset. This is the last photo with this girl."
Peter turned sharply, his eyes full of questions. The word "last" had somehow escaped Jennings in such a tone that Peter immediately sensed that this was far from an ordinary photograph.
"What does this mean?" Peter asked, not hiding his concern. He looked at the photo again, his heart pounding. He didn't know why, but this photo was now bothering him more than ever.
Jennings, continuing his work as if not noticing Peter's anxiety, answered without any effort:
"This model died two weeks ago of cancer." His voice was indifferent, as if he were talking about something as mundane as the weather. "It's very sad, of course, since she was only nine years old, but diseases don't give a damn who they attack, do they?"
Peter felt his stomach clench. It didn't add up. How could it be? He looked at Jennings, trying to find some sliver of regret or sympathy in his face, but he was still calm, almost emotionless.
"Are you... are you serious?" Peter couldn't believe his ears. "How can you talk about this so calmly?"
Jennings didn't answer right away, he put the camera down on the table and turned to Peter. His eyes suddenly became more attentive, as if he noticed something important about the boy, but then those thoughts disappeared.
"I told you, Peter," he continued quietly, as if talking to himself, "that this job isn't for everyone. There are times when you have to deal with things like that. There's a lot in a photographer's life that you don't always want to see or know. It's all just part of the job. You take pictures, and then they're gone. It's sad, but it can't be helped."
Peter felt the tension rise. He knew Jennings was speaking in such a cold, indifferent tone because he was part of this world. But for Peter, it was different. The girl in the photograph... she couldn't just disappear. Everything was connected. He knew intuitively that something was wrong.
"Aren't you surprised at all?" Peter asked, not hiding his bewilderment. "It's not just a coincidence. You said yourself that her photo was the last one. Why did that one become so important? Why did you leave it here, in plain sight?"
Jennings paused for a moment, as if deep in thought. He looked at the photograph again and sighed.
"Do you really believe in weird stuff, Peter?" His voice was a little mocking, but there was a strange shadow in his gaze now. "It's just a normal story. She died, so she died. Maybe she was unlucky, or maybe she just didn't have the strength to fight. I'm just a photographer, not a master of riddles."
Peter felt a cold sweat creep up his back. He didn't know what was stranger: the way Jennings ignored his questions, or the way the situation seemed to grow more vague and ominous with each word. He looked at the girl's photograph again, and for a moment he thought that her face was somehow familiar to him, but he couldn't figure out why.
He couldn't accept it. The boy approached the table where Jennings was fiddling with reagents and asked hesitantly but insistently:
"What was her name? That girl in the photo... You took a picture of her, right? What was her name?"
Jennings didn't answer right away. He was focused on his flasks and tubes, as if he were trying to formulate a chemical formula rather than talk to Peter. But when the boy didn't back down, Jennings raised his head slightly and asked casually,
"What did you say?" His voice was cold and indifferent, as usual, but there was a hint of irritation in it.
Peter felt his patience wearing thin. He was too hurt to simply back down. He exhaled and, gathering his strength, repeated the question louder, almost shouting:
"What was her name? Tell me the name of this girl!"
Jennings, without raising his head, continued to work with the reagents, stirring something in the flask and seeming not to hear the boy. Only when Peter, unable to bear it any longer, screamed the next time, did Jennings finally tear himself away from his work. He glanced at Peter, but answered indifferently, as always:
"I don't know her name," he muttered, as if this information wasn't worth his attention. "It was a strange name... Something like... a continent, not a person."
Peter froze in place, unable to believe his ears. He moved closer, trying to make sense of what Jennings had said. The mainland? What did he mean? He couldn't understand why Jennings was talking about her so casually, as if she were just another model he was shooting for money. But something was wrong, something didn't add up.
"Why did she have a name like a continent?" Peter repeated his question, unable to leave it unanswered.
He tried to catch even the slightest spark in Jennings's reaction, hoping that the photographer would at least take a break from his work and explain at least a little.
"Are you completely crazy?" the photographer muttered irritably, without raising his head. "I don't remember every model I work with. It's just a job, you know? She was a model, I shot her for some cheap movie, that's all. All I can say is that she had a weird name - something like "Asia" or "America" or something like that. You're distracting me."
Peter felt his patience begin to wear thin. He didn't believe it was just a coincidence. The girl's name Jennings had mentioned was too unusual, too strange, to be a coincidence. But Jennings clearly wasn't ready to say more. The boy stood in the studio, feeling his irritation grow.
"But you remember something about her, right?" Peter couldn't let it go. "You spent time with her, filmed her. There's no way you wouldn't remember her name at all. It's... It's important!"
Jennings finally stopped and sighed. He turned to Peter, his gaze slightly more focused but still reserved.
"Something important?" Jennings chuckled slightly. "You don't understand, Peter. It's just a job. I photograph models, do photo shoots, and then I forget about them. All the models I've photographed have names. But no one cares about that. All that matters is the shots that come out. Everything else is nonsense."
Peter was not satisfied. He felt that there was something behind this indifference. Why could he, a boy, not get rid of this photograph, this name that was constantly spinning in his head? Why did it give him no peace?
"But she was someone to you, wasn't she?" he continued, unwilling to give in. His voice was insistent. "You said it was for a movie. You can't just forget her. Especially when she died... two weeks ago, like you said."
Jennings finally looked up. His face was serious, his eyes were veiled in some depth, like a shadow that had not left him for a long time. He paused before answering, and then said, casually and with some irritation:
"Tell me honestly, are you in love with this girl?" His tone became sharp, as if he hadn't expected such questions. "Why are you bothering me over trifles?"
Peter felt his heart beat faster and took a nervous step back. He didn't know how to react to Jennings's words. His accusation hung in the air like an icy wind, but Peter still couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong with this conversation. He looked at the photographer, but instead of seeing any hidden emotion, he was met with a careless grin.
Jennings snapped his fingers, sighing softly as he continued fiddling with the equipment. Peter, standing a few feet away, was still trying to figure out what strange sensations were tormenting him. He didn't know what to think. Everything Jennings said sounded like an excuse, like a desire to run away from uncomfortable questions.
"It's just a photo shoot, Peter," Jennings said, still fiddling with the camera. He seemed genuinely absorbed in the process, his face showing no interest in the conversation. "One shoot after another. A model for a small film project. That's all. Dead, yes. A strange name, yes. But let's not get hung up on it. This isn't an Andrei Tarkovsky film, after all, where every actor is practically the center of the universe."
Peter stood there, staring at the photographer, his heart beating faster. Jennings's words sounded like an excuse, but Peter couldn't accept them. He felt his inner unease growing. This girl in the photograph-she wasn't just another model. This was more. Or at least Peter was sure there was something unusual behind the story.
"You don't understand," Peter said, trying to keep his voice calm, but there was still concern in his tone. "You say it's just a job. But somehow... it's not just a job. It's something weird. You can't just forget her, Jennings."
The photographer, still looking at his camera, just chuckled. His reaction was predictable, but it didn't calm Peter down. Jennings ignored his words, as if the boy wasn't even standing there.
"Why are you doing this, Peter?" Jennings finally put the camera down, dropped the lens, and pursed his lips, his face tense and irritated. He looked at the boy as if he were a waste of time. "You're being too picky. She was a model. We shot her. She played her part. Died? Well, that happens. A weird name? Well, that's what her parents called her. You must have fallen in love with her photo or something."
Peter felt his heart beat faster. He didn't know what to say. Jennings clearly wasn't in the mood for serious conversation, and his flippant attitude toward the girl's death, and everything connected with it, left Peter at a loss. The boy noticed that the photographer was becoming increasingly cold and distant. Perhaps he simply didn't understand what it was like to lose someone, even if that someone was just a person in a photograph. But for Peter, it was different. He couldn't get her face out of his head, that look that stayed with him even though the photograph was so far away.
"You really don't understand?" Peter finally said, trying to hide his anger, but there was still concern in his voice. He stepped closer to the photographer, not taking his eyes off his face. "You mean you don't care who she was? You don't care what her name was? This is all just a job to you?"
Jennings just shrugged, not noticing that Peter's words were hurting him. He glanced at the camera, as if apologizing to it for being distracted.
"You think too much, Peter," he said, turning to the boy. His eyes were blank, as if there was no emotion in them. "Work is work. I'm a photographer, she's a model. We made something that someone will like. That's all. You need to be careful what you imagine. You're getting too attached to these stories. She's just a person, not some mystery."
Peter tried not to listen, but the feeling of unease wouldn't leave him. He looked at the photo again, at the girl who had once been alive. Why was he so drawn to return to this topic? Why did her death leave a void in him that nothing could fill? And what was Jennings hiding, hiding such seemingly simple answers?
"You didn't even try to find out more about her?" Peter continued, not giving up. He felt like if he stopped now, he'd never get any answers. "You said her name was weird. Why would her parents give her a name like that and you never even asked?"
Jennings couldn't help but sigh again, his face contorting in irritation.
"What am I, a psychologist?" he said, his tone acidic. "Why do you care so much? This is her life, her parents, her name. What if it was weird? How does it affect you? You could just switch off and think about something else. After all, Peter, I'm not going to tell you the details of every person I work with. It's just a model. We're all doing our jobs, and that's it. Do you understand that?"
Peter felt his anger rising, but at the same time he felt cold. He couldn't understand why Jennings was so indifferent, why the photographer couldn't feel even a drop of compassion. But in the end, the boy knew that Jennings wasn't to blame. He was simply who he was, a man who could turn people into his work, into his profession. To him, a model was just a person in a photograph, part of the stream that passed through his lens. And, apparently, nothing more.
Peter was a little boy, whose emotions were still raw and pure. He was struck by this photograph – it was of a girl, with long black hair and a look that could pierce right through your soul. She was beautiful. But it wasn't just her looks that stayed with him. Peter felt something invisible, almost mystical, pulling him towards this photograph. And not just because she was a good model, and not just because her death was so sudden. Something more was hidden in this image, something that made him not let go, as if there was a trace behind this picture, an important connection that he had to find.