Sometimes I think about the different ways a man's life can change in minutes; then, I look back and remember how my life changed when I decided to travel to London by train, back in the year 1890.

I have always wanted to be a playwright when, at the age of seventeen, I decided to take my notebook and run away to the biggest metropolis on England; London. My family would never support my creativity when I was a child; my dream had always been ignored by the people around me. Jumping into that train was the most interesting, rewarding, memorable and traumatic thing I have ever experienced.

I was running away from my home, disguised with a grown-up man suit and a hat, that was covering my brown curls; with my notebook (that had at least five different plays written on it), and fear running through each of my veins to my heart like rivers of water flowing to the ocean.

Somehow, I had managed to get on the train by the time it left the station. I sat in one of the booths, luckily the only one that was empty, and looked out the window.

Would I miss France more than I wish my dreams would come true? Maybe not; I've always wanted to visit London.

For instance, when I get there, I would present my works in a theater or maybe to a publishing house, but I would also have to lie about my age; I mean, I'm seventeen. Usually, people wouldn't expect me to be passionate about writing at my age, but my brain is very active. I can't stay without imagining new stories, new characters; I can't stay locked in a small town in France.

I took off my hat and picked up my notebook, contemplating those drafts that would soon become plays, which would be presented in the largest theaters throughout Europe. My parents never understood me.

However, the cabin door had been opened; I didn't want anyone to recognize me, so I looked down and ignored the man who sat across from me.

This man greeted me with a friendly "Good morning." However, I didn't say anything to him and just nodded my head; embarrassing or not at my age, I still had a high-pitched voice.

I heard the sound of a newsprint being folded and unfolded a couple of times; as far as I'm concerned, the man was trying to read and settle into the front seat at the same time.

I lowered my gaze to his feet; his shoes were black, very elegant, and beside him, he had a black briefcase. I assumed it was full of papers, so I did not give it more importance when I returned to my notebook.

The man kept clearing his throat, trying to get my attention; he unfolded the newspaper and folded it again at the second. He had a pen or maybe a pencil, I could hear the brush of the tip of his pen against the newspaper; he was circulating some things.

I looked up for the first time, noticing that he was an older man than me, he didn't look old but he was in his thirties. He had a strong jaw, very strong, with a split beard.

He looked at me, his gaze was deep, interesting and kind. His black hair was short and well combed; his eyes were an intense blue color. A handsome man, wearing a tailored black suit, very elegant.

The man smiled at me, covering his face with the newspaper immediately. I just stared at him, intrigued by his looks and his demeanor.

He would look at me and go back to his newspaper constantly, while the sun began to go down in the west, to our right.

"Sorry; I'm sorry to interrupt with your activities, really, my apologies " he caught my attention, I started to get nervous at his words, but I looked at him attentively, "did you know that this is the silent carriage? "

"I'm sorry sir, but I wasn't making any noise." I replied immediately, much more scared than before. The man smiled tenderly and looked me in the eye.

"I know that it is not. But it seemed to my mind that you were..." He was silent for several seconds, trying to find the right word "young".

"Oh ..." I replied, speechless. I think he noticed it by my hair, my hairless face, and how obviously big my dad's suit was on me.

"It is something beautiful; youth..." he spoke again, inviting me to feel comfortable sitting next to him. He kept a cloth pressed against his abdomen, and, staring at the smile I gave him, he lowered the newspaper.

"You look young too, sir." The man laughed, he had a very masculine, kind and charismatic laugh.

"I'm thirty-five years old now, boy. By the way, my name is Henry Holmes, what is yours? "

"Nathan Louve. A pleasure, sir". I walked over to him and shook his hand. I had thought it would be awkward to spend my entire trip with him until he spoke to me.

"Don't call me sir, call me Henry." He smiled at me and continued: "Are you French?"

"Yes, that's right, Henry." I had felt a little weird talking to him by his first name, when he showed me his smile again and I felt calmer.

"I am English. In fact, I spent a season in Paris closing deals, but it's time for me to go home," he commented. "I chose this day because we will arrive tomorrow, tomorrow night the premiere of a play will be presented, do you like theater?"

I nodded, putting my notebook on my lap.

"It fascinates me," he continued. "But I don't like the plays that are presented every Friday without fail, Shakespeare is not my favorite. Hamlet... Hotel, Romeo and Juliet..." he drawled, returning his gaze to the newspaper. "The world is ready for new currents of thought; romanticism is lagging behind and Romeo and Juliet is no longer the same."

He was passionate when he spoke; I was struck by the ease and comfort with which he expressed his opinions. He looked at me, "What are your favorite plays?"

"I don't think I have a favorite; I have seen the few that had arrived in Arles".

"Arles, huh? Van Gogh is one of my favorite painters; most art critics mark his paintings as rubbish, but I am fascinated by the special way in which he uses his color. Have you already met him? "

"No sir. I am usually locked up at home, writing ... "

"You write?" He asked with interest, smiling at me. "Youth is beautiful, don't you think? You can have the creativity to renew everything we already have. Don't waste it, Nathan. What have you written so far? "

"Well, I've only written a few plays, but they're not that good ..." I looked down, his vast knowledge of art making me feel unsure of mine.

"Nathan..." he spoke, taking my chin and making me look into his eyes "never insult or denigrate your own art; celebrate it and share it".

"I'm sorry". I blurted out, taking my notebook and handing it to him. Henry smiled and opened it expectantly.

He began to turn the pages, to read a little here and a little there. I was just looking at his expressions; the way he smiled and readied himself to read more carefully. I think that, up to that point, I had never felt so nervous in my life.

"Well, Nathan. I am relieved. The future of France and Europe is in very good hands; your art is unique". He handed the notebook back to me, looking at my smile tenderly. "You hear it from someone who is a playwright and criticizes his own works."

"No. Is that true? " I asked him with great interest, putting my notebook aside and looking at him more closely.

"Of course; writing fascinates me, just like you. But I am also critical; I point out my own mistakes to myself and the others and correct them in the next work".

The way he spoke was so mesmerizing; so passionate, and so sure of what he was saying. He was a very interesting man.

"When we get to London, maybe you can help me present my works." I proposed, feeling much more in confidence with Henry; he smiled at me and leaned against the back of the seat. He kept holding pressure on his stomach with that rag.

"Nathan, the right thing is for everyone to look for how to achieve their own goals" I lowered my gaze, I felt so ashamed. "But the help of a friend never hurts anyone; let me propose something to you." I listened attentively. "Come with me tomorrow to see one of my most recent works "Heulender Wolf"; If you can give me constructive criticism of it, I will help you to present your works. Deal?"

I smiled at him; I had never felt so lucky in my life. Of course, I would take the opportunity. I shook his right hand and could see the sunset on our left; it had lovely orange and red tones.

He looked at me, I could feel that support that no one ever gave me, and I could feel that he was proud of me.

"Hmm ..." he started. "Can I ask you a favor, Nathan?" I looked at him attentively and nodded my head, noticing that his face lit up. "Can I take a picture of you? I know, it's a bit strange, but I love capturing the most significant moments of my life. "

I didn't know what to say, so I nodded. It was a bit difficult for him to reach down to his briefcase to pick it up and open it on his lap. He pulled out a portable camera that I, in my life, had seen. It was small, navy blue; and he smiled at me.

"Don't forget to smile, Nathan."

I smiled and he took the photo, feeling satisfied with it and looked at it through a tube that looked into the camera.

"Oh, I think it came out a little blurry. Well... I think it's better, isn't it? "

"Why?" I asked him intrigued, eager to hear him speak in that elegant and wise way again.

"Well, many people think that a photograph must be perfect; but hey! We are on a train. Photography should capture that; Instead of being perfect, it must capture the moments and the emotions. If it would have come out clear, I would take it again".

Henry was a Greek philosopher of many, many years ago. That's how I perceived it. He was the wisest person in the world, for a seventeen-year-old boy.

I smiled at him until he separated the cloth that was pressed against his abdomen. I stayed without breath; I closed my eyes several times, until I was sure that what I had in my abdomen was blood.

"Mr. Henry, I-" I couldn't finish, I was scared. How did this happen? A while ago he was fine; with the rag, yes, but he looked good.

"Oh." His smile was permanent, he never got rid of it, even when he was bleeding. "One more wound; curiously, this is one physical".

"How? What? Who did that to you? " I was shocked, but Henry looked calm.

"I didn't get it in a fight, nor was it heroic. Which makes it all more disappointing. I was about to jump on the train when a man pushed me against the wall and wounded me with a knife. Who was it? I do not know. Why did he do it? It is a bigger question".

"But Mr. Henry, you're bleeding to death!" I screamed, moving closer to him and looking at the severity of the injury.

"Nathan" he forced me to look at him and distract myself from the stab wound "what doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger, doesn't it? And if my time has come, then ... "

"No, Mr. Henry!"

"It's okay, Nathan, I'm fine." He started laughing, inviting me to sit back in my seat. He looked out the window and the moon was already reaching the highest point in the sky; he took out his pocket watch and looked at the time.

"Unbelievable; ten o'clock. It's late, are you tired, Nathan? "

I was very tired; It had been a busy day for me, quite a bit. First, I sneaked out of my house, then I ran to the train and now all this ...

"Would you like me to read you a bedtime story?" He asked me, pulling his jacket off with difficulty and pulling a book out of his briefcase. I nodded; I assumed there was no more to do.

Henry Holmes preferred that I fall asleep rather than I had to watch him die.

"Yes, that would be great."

I felt very sad as I leaned over the entire seat that belonged to me. A tear slid down my cheek, followed by two more that wet my brown hair.

"Do you like Grimm's tales? It's been a while but that only makes them more valuable and interesting- ". He stopped himself. I could only hear his voice and the way he complained about the wound on his body. I closed my eyes.

"Look, here's a very interesting one: The nail."

I started crying louder and louder, hearing him have difficulty breathing. I imagine he must have been white as a ghost.With all the blood he lost, and still trying his best to be able to read me a story.

Little by little, I began to lose myself in his reading, listening to him struggle more and more, falling asleep to the soothing sound of his voice.

Henry Holmes died that night, on the train, on the other side of the wagon.

The next morning, as soon as I opened my eyes, I found two envelopes on me. One with my name and one with the name "Maxwell Smith." I took both envelopes and my notebook, along with the book and camera, and put them in Henry's briefcase.

I got out of the wagon and, a few hours later, we arrived in London. In fact, I remember that the first thing I did was sit at the station for hours, reading and rereading the letter he had left me.

Of course, it included a lot of life advice; ending with the direction of the theater in which his play would be presented, followed by instructions to present my play to Maxwell Smith, one of his producing partners.

I did everything he told me to do.

Today, I am sitting trying to write the end of my tenth play, which would be the ninth to be published at the Shakespeare's Globe theater.

As soon as I had money, I developed the photograph he took of me that day. I have it on my desk, next to me, as a reminder of the moment that changed my life forever.

That of Henry Holmes, who had so much faith in me, is the story my photography tells.