Child model named Asia (or America)

Peter turned to Jennings, his fingers tightening slightly and his voice suddenly firm.

"You really don't understand?" he asked, trying to hide his anger. "That girl... she wasn't just a model, Jennings. She was a real person. I can see how you don't understand, how you're taking this. And I... I can't just brush off the fact that she was there, that she's gone.

Jennings chuckled, not looking up from his camera. There was a hint of displeasure in his eyes, but he didn't answer right away.

"Peter, you take this way too seriously," he finally said, lowering his voice. "We photographers see the world through our lenses. We don't get attached. We work, and that's it. She's just another model for a photo shoot. Dead? Well, that happens. That's life. We all have our own paths. As for her name... I don't know why you're so keen to know it. I don't care what her name was, Asia or America. It doesn't concern me at all, a simple photographer."

Peter stood there, unable to take his eyes off Jennings, his eyes full of doubt and pain. He didn't know how to respond to these words, because something inside him was seething with indignation. How could you be so impartial? How could you look at people as objects to be simply photographed and forgotten? This girl, this model, she was more than just another frame to Peter.

"But she was a person, Jennings," Peter said, barely audible. His voice broke, but he went on. "You can't just say she was ‘just a model.' She was alive, she had a life, she had a story. And you... you don't even care? You just take a picture and move on?"

Jennings glanced at him, and something like annoyance flickered in his eyes. He pursed his lips, then turned sharply back to the camera, concentrating again on his settings.

"Peter," he said, as if explaining the obvious to a child, "I'm a photographer. I take pictures of what I'm told. And yes, to me she was just a model. What you don't understand is that we need to think about the work, not about who's in front of the lens. We need to catch the light, adjust the angle, watch the composition. That's it. We don't get attached.

Peter was silent, feeling his anger slowly turn to confusion. He couldn't understand why Jennings was talking about it so calmly, as if it didn't matter. It didn't seem strange to him that such a tragedy - the death of this girl - left him indifferent. Peter tried to find the slightest sign of sympathy in his words, but he couldn't. It all seemed empty and cold to him.

"You said she died..." Peter said, suddenly realizing that the girl's death had become something important to him, something he couldn't just forget. "Why don't you want to talk about it? Why doesn't her fate matter to you?"

Jennings, without looking away from the camera, chuckled slightly.

"Because it doesn't matter, Peter," he replied, as if it were the simplest of truths. "I'm not going to worry about the model dying. It happens. We're all going to die one day, and that's just part of life. I'm not going to dwell on it."

Peter felt his chest tighten. He couldn't accept it. This girl was more than just a model to him. She was a person, and her death left a void. But Jennings couldn't understand that. He was so absorbed in his work that he was ready to forget everyone he photographed once he had taken a picture. It was all just part of the routine.

"So you never thought that maybe this girl had a life of her own?" Peter continued, unable to let go. "That she had people who loved her? That her death meant something to someone? To her family, her friends?"

Jennings put the camera down and turned to Peter, his face now serious, but not with the understanding the boy had hoped to achieve.

"Peter," he said, his voice low and tired. "You take this way too seriously. She was a model, she played a part, she was in a movie, and that was it. What if I worried about everyone I photographed dying every time? We wouldn't get a single picture. That's life, man. No one is immune to tragedy. We just keep working."

Peter stood there, trying to collect his thoughts. His words sounded strange, but they were true. He couldn't shake the feeling that something in this girl's eyes was different from all the other models. He saw it in every photograph, in the way she looked, as if she wasn't quite aware of what was happening around her. It was more than just a facial expression. It was a look full of innuendo, mystery, and fear. Peter felt like that look was watching him even now, even though the girl was dead.

"You see, Jennings," he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "I... I see something in that girl's eyes. Like she doesn't understand what's happened to her. Like she... doesn't realize that her life was just a game in someone else's hands. And now she's gone, and no one can tell her why it all happened. I can't just forget her."

Jennings, who had been standing behind the camera the entire time, turned his head, his irritation evident. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he took hold of the lens again.

"Are you crazy, Peter?" Jennings spoke quietly, but there was a stern tolerance in his voice, like an adult patiently trying to convince a younger child that he is wrong. He put the camera down, rubbed his temples, and continued, his words already beginning to sound tired. "It's just a picture, just a job. Do you really think that look in her eyes meant anything? You made up a whole story and now you want me to believe it? Me, who took the pictures myself and kept asking if the lights were too bright for her?"

Peter stood by the window, his gaze neither anxious nor doubtful, only intense, almost hypnotic, focused on the photograph on the wall. He continued to look at the girl, her face in the brown dress, her long black hair that seemed almost alive against the misty, dark room. There was something in the girl's eyes that Peter couldn't place, but he felt it was something important. Not just a photograph, not just a model. This was a story, this was something alive.