Shadow To Shadow

The young man working in the book store takes his break at precisely quarter past noon each day for exactly a half hour. He often spends it reading in a café across the street, but since his father died his appetite has been somewhat less rampant.

The funeral was a quiet affair, private and with a limited guest list, though some villagers attended the ceremony without invitation. The young man had recognized them as distant friends and had not turned them away. He was not moved by grief, but the smiles he distributed were strained and shaky.

The ceremony itself was peaceful, villagers reflect after the fact. The son handled it well and efficiently. Many make a note of commenting on the birds. Though quiet, crows were in abundance, as if they are intrigued by the lowering of the coffin into the grave.

Now the funeral has come and gone, and the young man has endured, and is still receiving sympathy and condolences from neighbours and friends. The distance between himself and the rest of the world that so suddenly intruded upon him when his father died is slowly closing.

On this break he stands just outside the doorway of the shop and removes a pack of cigarette from his pocket.

He pulls out a lighter, a complicated and heavy mechanism, and moves to light his cigarette when something in the blur of tweed coats and wool scarves in front of him catches his attention.

It is not a passing resemblance to his deceased father on the man walking through the square. There is no difference at all between this man and the man whose funeral he attended only two days ago. They are one and the same, down the crisp black suit and white shirt, and the wrinkles around his eyes.

The young man drops his cigarette and fumbles with the lighter, sliding it back into his pocket with shaking hands.

His father walks with purpose, as if the dead have important places to be at specified times. He crosses through shadow and sunlight. Where the light hits him he all but disappears, as insubstantial as smoke. The young man catches only glimpses of the highlight of his sleeve, the shadow under his brow, in the light. He does not walk around the crowds on the cobblestones, but rather they move around him, taking sidesteps or leaning away, without realizing it, parting like water to let him through.

The young man is just as certain it is his father exactly as he is that it cannot be possible. His feet begin moving him through the street after his father anyway.

His father has no shadow, though the young man can hardly tell amidst the ever-fading light and the shifting shadows. But when the sun shines through him there is nothing but light on every side of him.

And he is completely transparent, like a reflection in glass. Briefly, his son pauses, wondering if that is all he could be. But when his father continues and steps into the shadow, becoming once more opaque, he follows.

His father acknowledges no one, though he walks past many people that had once tipped his hat to. He wanders past the baker’s stall, past the florist, though he does seem to slow and inhale the pungent air outside it. His presence leaves a trail of cold, like a breeze, and several villagers pause in their actions as he walks by, looking around themselves and fidgeting with their coats.

The young man follows him, skeptical of what he is seeing yet unable to tear his eyes from every step, every movement. He pursues him through the streets, near-panicking when his father rounds a corner and disappears, letting out long breaths when he is once more in his field of vision. Out of the periphery of his eye he notices acquaintances and friends watching him as his father leads him closer and closer to the cemetery.

The crowds grow thinner nearer the cemetery. Those whose routes take them close to the rows and rows of graves keep their distance, walking on the opposite side of the street, averting their eyes from the towering black fence. His father walks next to the bars, stride never faltering, and enters through the gate.

The young man does not hesitate as he bursts after him. The air is cooler, freezing the sweat under his collar. It would be so pleasant if he were not chasing a ghost, and if there was not the impression here of other presences, pulling at his attention.

Finally, his father stops, in a ray of sunlight, an outline of whiteness and shadows, the buttons of his suit catching the light. The young man watches his father step aside, still in the sunlight, ripple and vanish.

He hurries to the spot where his father was, directly before his headstone. There is nothing there, no hint of cologne or ink, no footprints in the dirt. Nothing to suggest he was there at all.

He stands looking down at the headstone for some time. His attention is only diverted by a sound like the rustle of paper. When he turns he sees it is not paper but black feathers, rustling as a crow balances itself on a nearby tombstone. It does not take its eyes from him as he turns back to his father’s grave. It makes him feel distinctly uncomfortable, as though he is being watched by more than a pair of glistening black eyes.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Art by Yasser