Charlie had always imagined outrunning his shadow. Today, for the first time, he did. Walking home, he dragged his feet along the cracked pavement, his backpack bouncing against his small frame. The sun hung low, casting his shadow unnaturally long behind him. Charlie quickened his pace, daring it to fall behind, ducking past corners as if the shadow would get stuck on it.
At ten years old, Charlie was used to walking alone. His mom worked long hours. His dad... well, it was just he and his mom really. He had learned to stop asking about his dad. The answer was always the same: “He’s gone.” But there was always something in her voice, a sharpness, like she was hiding more than just hurt. Charlie knew better than to press. “It’s better like this, trust me,” she’d say, and that was the end of it.
Charlie liked being alone anyway. No one around meant no one was able to leave him.
As he walked, he glanced down at his shadow, now stretching ahead of him. It was long and thin, like a stick figure. Something was off about it, out of sync. He stopped, his shadow didn’t. It slipped from his shoe and made another step, seemingly unaware of Charlie's pause.
Charlie blinked, trying to make sense of it, and at that exact time the shadow snapped back, right where it should be—connected once again.
He took off in a sprint, hoping to lose it. Make it stay behind. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Charlie shook his head and hurried home, trying to ignore the chill that crept up his spine.
By the time he reached home, Charlie convinced himself it was just a trick of light. He kicked off his shoes, grabbed his notebook, and opened to the familiar pages filled with his sketches. Drawing was his favorite thing in the world, which he usually did until his mom came back from work.
Today, the drawings didn’t come easy. His hand trembled as he sketched a boy. Something was wrong about him. He erased him, leaving behind its faint pencil-shadow. The figure’s limbs were too long, hunched over, watching him. No matter what he tried, the boy remained face-less. After each try, the erased drawing became darker. Frustrated, Charlie threw the notebook aside and closed his eyes.
His mind drifted back to the walk home, to the shadow that had moved without him. His stomach churned at the memory. He glanced toward the window, where the evening light was fading. His shadow stretched out on the floor. Long. Distorted. He raised his hand, and the shadow followed. A quick wave, and it waved back, as it should. Yet, there was a slight delay.
Charlie quickly lowered his hand. The shadow kept waving, its attention elsewhere.
“Charlie?” His mom’s voice came from the hallway, tired as usual.
He jerked his head toward the sound. “Yeah?” His voice trembled more than he wanted.
His mom entered the room, her eyes weary but soft. She smiled at him, but something about it made Charlie feel uneasy, like the air before a storm.
“Everything okay?”
“Just drawing.”
She glanced at the discarded notebook but didn’t ask about it. “I’ll get dinner started soon. What do you want to eat?”
“Not that hungry.”
She sighed and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Charlie alone with his thoughts. He stared at the notebook again, at the faceless figure lurking on the page. A shiver ran through him, and he snapped it shut.
***
That night, Charlie lay in bed, unable to sleep. The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made every small sound seem bigger, scarier. He tossed and turned, pulling the blanket tighter around him. Faint shadows flickered on the wall.
He stared at them. What if it wasn’t his imagination? What if the shadow had moved on its own? He wanted to tell his mom, but she’d just brush it off. It didn’t make sense anyway. The only man faster than his shadow existed in comics.
His eyes drifted to the corner of the room, where the shadows gathered thickest. For a moment, he saw something—a figure, watching him. His breath caught in his throat. He blinked, and it was gone again. Just shadows. His mind, playing tricks on him.
But there had been something about the way it stood, tall, broad shoulders, a familiar stance. He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. But even as he drifted into a restless sleep, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone.
***
The next day at school, Charlie kept to himself. During recess, he sat alone at the edge of the playground, hunched over his notebook. The other kids ran around, laughing and playing tag. He didn’t mind. Drawing was easier than games. Quieter.
He had to force the pencil across the page, sloppy cats, crooked houses, trees that didn’t look quite right. In general, he thought of something, and it just appeared, like his hand knew what to do. Now, whenever his mind drifted, the shadowy figure slipped back onto the paper, creeping in at the edges.
“Whatcha drawing?”
Charlie jumped, startled by the voice. It was Evan, one of the boys from his class, standing behind him, peering over his shoulder.
“Nothing,” Charlie mumbled, closing the notebook.
Evan frowned. “Looks weird. Why’s it all black?”
Charlie shrugged, keeping his eyes down. He didn’t want to explain. Evan didn’t press him, just wandered off to join the others. Charlie let out a breath. He didn’t want anyone to see his latest drawings. Not now. The bell. He stood up, notebook close to his chest.
When school ended, Charlie walked home the same way he always did. As he reached the crossroad, he stopped, glancing left, then right. His eyes fell to the ground. The shadow didn’t stop. It kept walking, an arm raised, waving. Urging him to cross the road.
Charlie’s heart pounded. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet. The shadow paused, waiting on the other side, patient and still. Then, as he crossed the road and caught up with it, it slid back into place, reattaching itself to his feet like nothing had happened.
Panic surged through him. Charlie bolted, running the rest of the way home, his chest tight with fear. The shadow clung to him, and all he wanted was to break free from it—for good.
***
Over the next few days, Charlie couldn’t escape it, just like no one ever can. Except, his shadow behaved like it’s having a mind of its own. With each day, his drawings grew darker, the faceless figure more prominent, more menacing.
His mother noticed. One evening, as they sat at the dinner table, the flickering light from the kitchen cast long, wavering shadows along the walls.
“Charlie, honey, is everything okay?” she asked, her voice soft, tinged with concern. “You’ve been acting… different lately.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, absently pushing his food around his plate. She wouldn’t believe him anyway.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” She leaned in, her tired eyes searching his face, looking for answers he wouldn’t give.
Charlie nodded, but inside, he felt the gap growing, he was used to telling her everything.
That night, as Charlie lay in bed, the darkness in his room felt heavier, more oppressive. The shadows on the ceiling twisted in strange, unsettling shapes. His mind raced with questions he couldn’t answer. Was the shadow just a part of him, like everyone said? Or was it something else? Something separate?
“What do you want?” He whispered. But shadows don’t speak to you, right?
***
The shadow wasn’t just following Charlie anymore—it was waiting. For what, he didn’t know. But it grew, creeping deeper into the corners of his life, until it became the only thing that felt real.
He stopped drawing altogether. Every time he tried, the faceless figure appeared on the page. No matter how hard he pressed the pencil to create something else, it always came back, dark, looming, and familiar in a way that made his skin crawl.
And as the days passed, Charlie began to notice something else. He was changing, too. The things that used to make him laugh, like the silly jokes his classmates told, the cartoons on TV, it didn’t seem funny anymore. The world around him felt muted, quieter.
His mother asked him again and again if he was okay. Her voice soft and worried, but her words felt like noise in his ears. He was fine, better than fine, actually. So why wouldn’t she just leave it alone? Sometimes, he wished she’d be quiet. Stop asking. The thought was sharp, like a whisper in the back of his mind.
Charlie wasn’t scared of the shadow anymore. In a strange way, he felt connected to it. It was the only thing that never left, the only thing that stayed with him, no matter what.
More than anyone else ever had.
It was his. And it would never leave him.
***
Days turned into weeks, and Charlie couldn’t remember exactly when it happened, but he started seeing the shadow as a friend. He could rely on it; it guided him.
One afternoon at school, Charlie sat at his desk, staring blankly at his notebook, trying to focus on the numbers and letters the teacher wrote on the board. Math wasn’t usually hard for him. That day everything felt muddled. The other kids worked quietly, pencils scratching against paper, but Charlie’s mind was somewhere else—lost in the strange, heavy feeling that followed him everywhere now.
That’s when it happened.
A soft nudge against his hand, as if someone was pushing his pencil for him. Startled, he looked down. Just his hand gripping the pencil, and the shadow stretching across the desk. It moved slightly ahead of his own movements, guiding him like the drawings he used to make instinctively. Now, the shadow was leading.
Charlie hesitated, then relaxed his hand. The pencil moved again, tracing numbers across the page, perfect, neat, correct. His heart raced, but he didn’t stop. The shadow knew what to do, and Charlie trusted it.
When the bell rang, signaling recess, Charlie quickly packed his things and glanced down. Maybe it wasn’t so bad…
Then there was the ‘incident’. Outside, Evan and a few of the other boys were playing tag near the jungle gym. Charlie sat alone again, his notebook open, though he wasn’t drawing. He just watched, eyes following the shifting shadows under the bright sunlight.
“Hey, Charlie!” Evan’s voice cut through his thoughts. He looked up to see Evan running toward him, grinning. “Wanna play?”
Charlie shook his head, clutching his notebook to his chest. “No thanks.”
“C’mon, it’s fun!” Evan persisted, grabbing Charlie’s arm. “Don’t be a baby.”
Charlie felt a flash of anger. “I said no!”
Evan frowned, but before he could say anything, his hand holding Charlie’s arm turned dark. Evan’s eyes widened, releasing Charlie’s arm as if he’d touched a red-hot pipe.
“Ow!” Tears welled up in the corners of Evan’s eyes. Charlie saw them—saw Evan trying not to cry as he turned and ran away.
Charlie had never liked Evan much. He was always interfering with his drawings. Seeing him run away filled Charlie with an unfamiliar sense of pride. His chest swelled. He didn’t understand what had happened, but he was happy. Grateful, even.
***
During dinner that night, his mom called him out on the incident. “What happened with Evan, Charlie?”
“I didn’t do anything.” The words came out fast, defensive. The question itself made the blood in his temples throb, each pulse loud in his ears.
“Miss Green says you hurt Evan—his hand was swollen and red.”
Charlie stared at his mother’s face, her eyes narrowing with something unfamiliar. She asked more questions, her voice blending into the background. The dull ache inside Charlie’s head sharpened, like needles pressing deeper.
“He needed a lesson,” Charlie said. The words flowed naturally from his thoughts, except it didn’t sound like something he’d say. His arms crossed tightly, as if to hold something inside.
His mother’s face changed. Something flashed in her eyes—something Charlie hadn’t seen before. Anger, yes, but deeper. Fear. “You’re just like him!” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Upstairs now. No dinner. Nothing, you hear me?”
Charlie stepped back, his stomach twisting. His mother had never yelled at him like that before. The words echoed in his head—just like him. The shadow stirred beneath him. He felt its presence close, watching.
Who did she mean?
For the first time in a long time, Charlie was scared—scared of his mother, scared of the words he’d spoken. Was it really him who said them?
That night, in bed, he replayed the scene over and over. The shadow had protected him, hadn’t it? Evan had been bothering him, and the shadow had... stepped in. It felt strange, thinking of the shadow as something more than a 2D copy-cat. It was able to act as an individual.
Or… did his thoughts tell the shadow to act?
Charlie sat on his bed, cross-legged, his thinking position. He stared at the wall where faint shadows danced from the streetlight outside. His own shadow was there, as well his friend shadow. They sat beside each other. He raised his hand, and it raised its hand as well, greeting. Charlie should’ve been scared, he knew that. He wasn’t.
The shadow wasn’t trying to hurt him. In fact, it was helping. Always there, always watching. He whispered, “Why did you help me?”
There was no answer, of course. Just the soft whisper of the wind outside, rustling the trees beyond his window.
Slowly, he lay back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin. The shadow stayed there, unmoving, but somehow… comforting. Like a secret friend who understood him in ways no one else could. A guardian angel.
***
The next morning, Charlie felt lighter. He’d hugged his mom, said the magic words, I’m sorry, and left. He walked to school with a new sense of confidence, his friend trailing behind him in the sunlight.
At recess, nobody bothered him. The other kids ran and played, their laughter filling the air, but Charlie didn’t feel like joining them. He didn’t need to. His shadow was with him. His hand moved across the notebook, drawing the forest near his home absentmindedly.
As he doodled, something caught his attention. Across the playground, two older boys had cornered a younger kid near the fence. The boy looked scared, his back pressed against the chain-link as the older boys laughed and shoved him.
Charlie felt a twinge of anger. He didn’t like bullies. He knew what it felt like to be picked on, to be pushed around. But what could he do? The older boys were bigger than him, stronger. He couldn’t just walk over there and teach them their lesson… But someone—
Before he could finish the thought, the shadow stretched.
Charlie’s breath caught in his throat as he watched it slide—slowly, deliberately—across the ground toward the bullies. Long and thin, he slipped across the sunlit pavement. The boys didn’t notice it, focused on their victim.
Then, without warning, one of the bullies slipped, crashing to the ground. The other startled, jumped back, but the shadow was already there. The boy grabbed his shin, yelling in pain.
Charlie watched, frozen. The younger kid took the chance to run, darting away while the bullies scrambled to get up. They didn’t even look at Charlie.
When the shadow returned, Charlie felt a strange sense of satisfaction. The shadow protected the kid, just like he had protected Charlie.
But Charlie didn’t ask for him to help the kid, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about the situation.
***
The days blurred together, and Charlie found himself leaning on the shadow without even thinking. It was always there, and it knew what he needed, even before he knew it himself. When math problems swirled into confusion, the shadow guided the pencil over the paper until the answers appeared. When a knot of fear twisted in his stomach, the shadow moved closer, its cool presence wrapping around him, calming the panic like a heavy, comforting blanket.
But the shadow wasn’t the same anymore. It had become darker, heavier. His size was like a grown up. Sometimes he stretched so far he took over the room, making the light from the windows seem dimmer. And something else was different too. It made him do things.
In class, the sound of other kids laughing grated at his ears, the shrillness of it like nails on a chalkboard. Their games, their dumb jokes—they didn’t matter to him. Nothing they said did. The shadow coiled tighter around him, its presence soothing the irritation.
One afternoon, while sitting at his desk, a classmate cracked a joke—something about his shoes or the way he fidgeted, Charlie wasn’t even sure. Normally, it would’ve rolled off him. But they were just so… “So stupid!”
Charlie’s fingers tightened around the pencil. His shadow, stretched beneath him, pulsed with a dark rhythm. The heat rose, uncoiling in his chest, and before he knew it, the pencil snapped in his grip. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and final.
The class went quiet. The pencil, broken in half, lay in Charlie’s palm. His classmate turned, startled, eyes wide. For a moment, no one spoke. Then the teacher did. “You can get yourself a new pencil at the principal’s office Charlie. Try and cool down a bit.”
He stared at the jagged edges of the pencil, his fingers still curled around the pieces. Beneath him, the shadow shifted again, closer, alive with the heat of his anger. He could feel it feeding on him. Drawing strength from the flickers of rage. Exiting class, he slammed the door.
What scared him most wasn’t the shadow.
It was that he liked this feeling.
The class seemed distant, its colors fading like old photographs. Laughter floated through the window, but it felt far away, like a memory slipping through his fingers. Only the shadow felt real.
A creeping sensation that made Charlie’s stomach twist. He wasn’t following Charlie anymore. Charlie followed him, toward… something.
At the door to the principal's office, his hand hovered over the knob. An icy feeling crawling up his legs and into his chest. He felt the cold seep into his bones. His heart thudded in his chest, but with each beat, a strange voice whispered in the back of his mind: “You don’t need to go in there. It’s not worth it. Just leave. You’ll feel better once you’re outside.”
Charlie swallowed, his throat dry. He knew he was supposed to go inside. Get a new pencil, say sorry, and go back to class like nothing had happened. Then again, he couldn’t shake the feeling his newfound friend was right. The farther he got from this place, the better he’d feel. The warmth beckoned him, pulling him toward the exit.
His hand dropped from the knob, his fingers curling into a fist. He turned away from the office, his feet moving almost of their own accord as he walked toward the door that led outside. Each step was easier than the last, the warmth conquering the cold.
He pushed open the door and walked into the bright sunlight. When it hit his face, warm and inviting, welcoming him back into a place where he truly belonged. The shadow, long and stretched on the pavement, clung to his feet like a loyal companion.
Charlie didn’t look back at the school. He didn’t need to.
***
When Charlie arrived home, the house was empty. His mom was still at work. He glanced past the backyard toward the edge of the forest. It was quiet. Too quiet. The stillness pressed against his skin, pulling him toward the trees. Without thinking, he started walking.
At the forest’s entrance stood the tall oak tree with its wide, knotted trunk. The late afternoon light stretched Charlie’s shadow long against it, and for a moment, he could almost believe they were face to face. He swallowed hard, his throat dry.
“Are you... him?” Charlie’s voice wavered, barely more than a whisper.
The shadow’s shoulders lifted in what could have been a shrug.
“Are you my father?” Charlie’s words tumbled out before he could stop them, a mix of hope and dread.
Another shrug.
Charlie’s heart raced. He slid off his backpack, letting it fall with a dull thud, the sound swallowed by the quiet of the woods. His shadow mirrored the movement, but the one cast on the tree stood still, watching. Unmoving.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how the world was supposed to work. But here he was, standing in front of something that shouldn’t exist. His pulse thrummed in his ears.
“Are you... a ghost?” His breath caught as he whispered the question. “Are you dead?”
Without thinking, he stepped forward, his arms reaching out. He pressed his body against the rough bark where the shadow’s form would be, as if hugging someone he hadn’t seen in years. He clung to the tree, desperate for some warmth. The bark scratched his cheek, but for a moment, it felt like arms were wrapped around him, holding him tight. No. That couldn’t be right, could it? Charlie squeezed his eyes shut, afraid to let go.
When he finally stepped back, wiping his eyes, the shadow slid across the ground, weaving between the trees. Charlie followed, quick footsteps crunching on the leaves, the forest swallowing the sound. It felt as though the world was shrinking around them, the trees closing in.
The shadow led him to a small clearing bathed in a circle of sunlight. It stopped, sinking to the ground and spreading its limbs wide, as if lying down in a peaceful rest.
Charlie frowned. “What... you want me to dig?”
The shadow didn’t move. Just lay there, its dark form stark against the golden light. His hands shook as he scanned the ground. His fingers found a flat stone, sharp enough to break the earth. He knelt, heart pounding in his chest, and scraped at the soil. It didn’t take long before his stone struck something hard.
He froze.
With trembling hands, he unearthed a small metal tin, caked in dirt. He wiped it clean, prying open the rusty latch. Inside, on a piece of worn cloth, lay a simple knife. A kitchen knife. It wasn’t much, but something about it made Charlie’s breath hitch.
Beneath the knife was an envelope, yellowed with age. His fingers shook as he unfolded it. The photo inside showed his mother, smiling. Beside her stood a man Charlie barely recognized. His heart skipped. “Is this... you?” His voice cracked as he turned to the shadow.
It didn’t move.
Charlie’s chest tightened. He looked at the knife again, the pieces starting to click together. “You were killed... with this?”
The photo blurred in his hands. His head spun. The truth—sharp and cold—was beginning to form. “Why?” His voice was barely more than a tremor. “Why was this hidden?”
The shadow didn’t answer. It didn’t have to. One arm rose, pointing at the photo of his mother. The other reached toward the knife. The meaning was clear.
Charlie’s stomach twisted. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I don’t believe you. She wouldn’t. She didn’t.”
A sudden warmth surged through him, starting at his spine. The shadow wrapped around him, like a blanket—heavy, comforting, suffocating. It held him close, wiping away the tears before they could fully fall.
“I don’t believe you,” he muttered, wiping his face with the back of his hand. His voice was firmer now, but the doubt still gnawed at him, a splinter in his mind. “I’ll ask her. I’ll ask Mom.” He clutched the tin tighter to his chest, his words coming fast now. “And I don’t want you there. Stay here.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, the shadow didn’t follow him. It sank into the ground, folding in on itself, and sat still. Watching.
Charlie stood for a moment, staring at the motionless figure. For the first time, he walked away with only his own shadow trailing behind him. The tin, the knife, the photos—all tucked under his arm as he ran toward home.
He had only one goal.
Confront her.
***
Four hours later, the front door creaked open, and Charlie’s mother walked in, her arms full of groceries. Charlie sat on the couch, the small metal tin resting heavily in his lap, his hands still caked with dirt. His gaze stayed fixed on the tin as if he could barely hold it anymore. The second his mother saw him, her eyes went wide, and the grocery bag slipped from her grasp, apples rolling across the floor.
“Sweetie…” Her voice was tight with fear, trembling like a string about to snap.
Charlie’s jaw clenched, his whole body vibrating with barely contained energy. His breathing quickened, shallow and sharp. He couldn’t look up at her, not yet. “Mom?” His voice uncertain, and the tin on his lap creaked under the pressure of his hands, the metal edges bending slightly.
Her eyes flicked to the tin, and her face drained of color. “Where did you—”
Charlie stared down at the tin, his heart pounding in his chest. His hands trembled as he lifted the knife, the weight of the object settling into his mind like a puzzle piece clicking into place. He didn’t understand it fully, but the thought was there, forming, pushing up from somewhere dark. He looked at his mother, her eyes wide and uncertain. “Why was this hidden?” His voice was shaky, but louder now.
Her face drained of color. “Charlie, where did you find that?”
The shadow rippled at his feet, and Charlie felt something shift in the room. “What aren’t you telling me?” His voice came out before he could stop it, louder than he’d intended, but the question gnawed at him. The shadow pressed closer, feeding his thoughts with doubt. “You... did something, didn’t you?” The words stumbled out, but they were raw, accusing.
She hesitated, her voice shaky. “Charlie... that’s not mine.” She took a step forward, her voice trembling, her eyes darting between him and the floor. “Please, put it down.”
But the shadow was in his ear now, a cold whisper. She’s lying. The words felt like his own, and they escaped before he could hold them back. “You’re lying.”.
His mother’s breath caught. “No—no, Charlie, I—” Her eyes filled with fear, but not for herself. “Please, I want you to be safe.”
Charlie’s heart pounded in his chest, the shadow pulsing behind him, its presence heavy, urging him forward. His grip on the tin tightened, and his mind raced. “Safe? From what?” The question escaped as a whisper. He didn’t know whether he was asking her—or the shadow.
Her gaze dropped to the floor, her lips trembling. “From… yourself.” she said, her voice breaking. "I’d do everything for you." His mother stepped back, her hand flying to her mouth. “Charlie, please—”
Charlie’s voice cracked, rising. “Did you kill him with this?”
She took a shaky step forward, her eyes pleading, but Charlie could see the truth written all over her face. She was terrified. Of him.
“Who?” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Charlie glared at his mother, his fists clenched at his sides. “Dad!” Charlie’s voice cracked, his chest heaving.
“What do you mean?” Her voice wavered, eyes darting to the dark corners of the room.
“The shadow… it helps me,” he whispered. The room felt smaller, colder, and Charlie saw it—the terror etched on her face, blooming like a sickness.
She backed away. “No... oh God, no.”
"It’s Dad! He's been here all along. He helps me when I need it. He's the only one who understands me!" Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, but he blinked them away.
Her face paled as realisation dawned. "Oh my God," she whispered. “That's why... that's why you've been acting differently.”
Charlie frowned. "What do you mean?"
She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “Hurting kids, anger, running away from school.”
"That wasn’t me, he did it," Charlie snapped. "He helps me. He stopped those bullies at school. He's been there when you weren't!"
Pain flickered in her eyes. "I’m sorry." She shook her head vigorously. "You don't understand. I want to be here for you, I-"
"You took him away from me," Charlie muttered, his gaze dropping to the floor.
She hesitated. "Oh Charlie…"
Charlie looked up, meeting her gaze with a cold intensity that unnerved her, her breath caught.
"This is not you Charlie. It’s… him, he is making you do the things, isn’t he" She took a tentative step closer. "Think about it. The anger you've felt, the things you've done. That's not you, Charlie. You’re a good person."
He shook his head, backing away. "No... he's my friend. He cares about me."
She reached out a hand. "Please, trust me. Remember when you helped that boy at school? Did you want to hurt those bullies?"
"I... I just wanted them to stop," he murmured.
"And the shadow—did it stop when you wanted it to?"
Charlie hesitated. "He... hurt them."
She nodded slowly. "Because he's not here to help you. He's hurting others."
Doubt began to creep in as he recalled the unsettling moments when the shadow made him do things. Hurting others, that was the shadow. Right? Thinking back, did the shadow grab Evans hand? Or was it Charlie himself that squeezed Evan’s hand?
She closed the distance between them, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "Your father may be gone, but you're a good boy, Charlie."
His eyes searched hers, vulnerability breaking through the anger. "Am I turning into him?"
She pulled him into a tight embrace. "Let me help you Charlie, we can get past this."
For a moment, he stiffened, but then he relaxed into her arms. The room seemed to lighten, the oppressive weight lifting slightly.
Behind them, the shadow twisted, flickering in and out of form. Over her shoulder, Charlie watched it slither, fear coiling tighter inside him. “I feel like he’s still here,” he whispered.
His mother’s grip tightened. “We’ll face him. Together.”
The air buzzed, heavy with tension. His mother stood across the room, eyes rimmed red, her breath uneven.
Charlie watched in horror as tendrils of shadow snaked toward his mother.
"Mom!" he cried out, but the shadow didn't heed his words.
She winced as Charlie raised the knife. Her wide eyes flicked to the shadows, or maybe it was just to him. She was trembling. "Charlie, please…”
He stepped forward, the knife quivering in his hand. “You’re not protecting me.” His voice cracked. “You’re hurting me.”
He dove to the floor, slicing near his feet, the blade shimmering in the light.
The shadow paused, its form flickering. Retreating, uncertain.
Charlie took a deep breath. "I won't let you control me anymore."
Charlie swung the knife, the air crackling with a sharp, high-pitched hum. For a moment, nothing happened—just silence, just the shadow shifting, coiling back like a snake. Then, a flicker, like light bending in a way it shouldn’t. The room felt lighter, but had he really cut anything?
Breathing heavily, Charlie dropped the knife. His mother rushed to him, pulling him into a tight embrace. "Oh, Charlie," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Are you okay?"
He nodded against her shoulder, tears finally spilling over. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so sorry."
She held him tighter. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."
They stayed like that for a long moment, holding onto each other as the last remnants of the shadow faded away.
***
In the days that followed, Charlie and his mother talked openly about everything—the past, his father, and the shadow that had haunted them both. Together, they decided to seek help, to heal the wounds that had been hidden for so long.
Charlie returned to his drawings, but now his sketches were filled with light and color—pictures of forests bathed in sunlight, animals playing freely, and smiling faces. The darkness that once lingered at the edges of his pages was gone.
One afternoon, as he sat sketching at the kitchen table, his mother joined him. "What are you drawing today?" she asked, a gentle smile on her face.
He turned the notebook toward her. "Us," he said simply.
She looked at the drawing—a mother and son standing together beneath a bright sun, shadows stretching harmlessly behind them. Her eyes welled up with tears, but this time, they were tears of joy.
"It's beautiful," she said.
He smiled, while his hand moved without thinking. Another figure, smaller, forming beside the boy on the page. He didn’t notice it until his mother kissed his head. But by then, it was already there, lurking behind them, its arms outstretched in the fading light.
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