We Are the Shadows

Your shadow remembers what you forgot. Mine started whispering three days ago. Not with sound,

but with cold dread crawling up my spine at dusk. I ignored it until yesterday,

when I found photos of myself in places I've never been. Same clothes. Same face.

Different life. Then I saw the pattern. Every person in my family has a journal entry about

losing time. My grandmother wrote about waking up with dirt under her nails.

My father described finding keys to houses that don't exist. Now I understand.

We don't cast shadows. We are the shadows. The things moving in daylight, living our lives,

they're something else wearing our skin. And at dusk, when both worlds