What Dies Trying

Glenn Barker's second shadow appeared on his forty-third birthday.

He noticed it at work. Standing by the filing cabinet while his regular shadow fell across his desk from the overhead lights. Same height. Same build. Just there.

His first thought was that he was having a stroke.

His second thought was that he should probably tell someone.

His third thought was that if he told someone, they'd take him to the Department.

So Glenn didn't tell anyone.

He went home early, claiming a headache. Watched both shadows follow him to his car. One cast by the sun. One cast by nothing at all.

At home, he stood in his bathroom. Overhead light creating one shadow behind him. The second shadow standing to his left, independent, watching him in the mirror.

"What do you want?" Glenn asked.

Neither shadow answered.

He tried to go about his evening routine. Made dinner. The shadows stayed in the kitchen while he ate. One mimicking his movements. One standing by the sink, motionless.

He watched TV. Both shadows sat on the floor in front of the couch. The normal one shifted when he shifted. The second one didn't move at all.

At midnight, Glenn gave up trying to sleep. Started documenting everything in his phone.

Day 1: Second shadow appeared at work.

Day 2: Second shadow learning? Mimicked some movements. Selective copying.

Day 5: Second shadow stood between me and my door this morning.

Day 7: Wellness check today. Only cast one shadow during meeting. The second one waited outside. How did it know to hide?

Day 10: My normal shadow is starting to act strange. Flinching when I don't. Like it's competing with the second shadow.

Day 14: Both shadows stood facing each other last night. For three hours. When I woke up, they were back to normal.

Day 19: The second shadow touched me today. I felt it. Like cold water running down my spine.

Day 21: I think I'm dying.

Glenn sat in his bathroom, phone in hand, staring at that last entry. He'd written it an hour ago. Written it because this morning he'd coughed up blood.

He looked at both shadows. They stood on either side of him. Perfectly still.

"Which one of you is doing this?" he asked.

The normal shadow raised one hand. Pointed at the second shadow.

Glenn's blood run cold. His shadow had never moved independently before.

The second shadow shook its head. Pointed back at the original.

"You're both lying," Glenn whispered.

Neither shadow moved.

Glenn made an appointment with his doctor. Got blood work done. Scans.

Results came back three days later.

Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. Inoperable. Maybe six months. Probably less.

Glenn sat in the doctor's office, listening to words like "palliative care" and "quality of life."

He looked at his two shadows on the wall behind him.

Both of them had their heads down.

Like they'd known all along.

That night, Glenn sat in his living room. Didn't turn on any lights. Let both shadows merge with the darkness.

"How long have you known?" he asked the empty room.

Movement in the darkness. The second shadow separated itself from the black. Held up fingers.

Three weeks.

"Why didn't you warn me?"

The shadow pointed at itself. Then at Glenn. Then made a motion like splitting something in half.

Glenn stared at it. "I don't understand."

The shadow reached out toward him. That same cold feeling.

Glenn's normal shadow moved then. Stepped forward. Stood between Glenn and the second shadow.

The two shadows faced each other.

"Stop," Glenn said. "Both of you. Just stop."

The shadows went still.

"I need you to come back together. Both of you."

The shadows didn't move for a long moment.

Then, slowly, they stepped toward each other.

Glenn felt it when they merged. Felt something inside him click back into place. The constant exhaustion lifted slightly. Not gone. But manageable.

His shadow stood in front of him. Whole again. Single.

It looked different somehow. Heavier.

Glenn reached out. Touched the wall where his shadow fell.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For trying."

Glenn lived for four more months.

His neighbor Lisa had brought him soup twice. She knocked on his door, left it on the step. He watched her through the peephole. Wanted to open the door. Wanted to ask if she'd like to have coffee sometime.

But what was the point now?

Toward the end, when the pain got bad, he'd sometimes see his shadow split again. Just for a moment. The second shadow reaching out.

Always trying.

On his last day, in the hospice room with sun streaming through the window, Glenn opened his eyes one final time.

His shadow stood at the foot of his bed. Still whole. Still there.

"You can go now," Glenn said. "It's okay."

His shadow didn't leave.

It stayed until the very end.

And when Glenn Barker finally died at 3:47 PM on a Thursday afternoon, his shadow stood up from the floor, walked to the window, and split one last time.

The second shadow left through the wall. Walked away. Disappeared.

The first shadow stayed with the body.

Stayed until the nurses came. Until the collector arrived with their glass vial and their paperwork.

The collector scanned the shadow. The device beeped.

She looked at the reading. Frowned. Scanned again.

BARKER, GLENN - COLLECTED: March 22, 2021 STORED: Ward 7 STATUS: Contained

The collector stared at the screen. March 22, 2021. Four years ago.

But Glenn Barker had died twenty minutes ago. His shadow had been with him the entire time. The hospice staff confirmed it.

She pulled up the collection logs. Found the entry from 2021.

Notes: Medical separation during cardiac arrest. Subject survived. Shadow separated and contained per standard protocol.

The collector looked at the shadow standing next to Glenn's body.

She prepared the containment vial anyway. Approached the shadow.

But before she could trap it, Glenn Barker's shadow did something no shadow had ever done.

It looked directly at her.

And smiled.

Then it walked through the wall and disappeared.

The collector stood alone in the empty room, staring at the spot where the shadow had been.

At the scan results that still showed "contained" in Ward 7 since 2021.

At the glass vial that should have been full but was empty.

Her phone buzzed. Text message.

Marcus: "Mira, please call me back. Something's wrong with Emma. I need to know what you found."

Mira Chen stared at her brother's message. At the empty room. At the impossible scan results.

She closed her tablet.

Filed the report as "subject deceased, shadow contained as of 2021, no collection necessary."

And walked out of the hospice without looking back.