What Repeats

The call came at 6 AM on a Thursday.

"Mr. and Mrs. Palmer? This is Susan from Bright Horizons Adoption Services. We have a baby for you."

Rachel sat up in bed. Three years of waiting. Three years of home visits and background checks and monthly phone calls with nothing.

"When?" she asked.

"She's ready now. Can you come to the facility this morning?"

Rachel looked at David. He was already putting on his glasses.

"We'll be there at eight," Rachel said.

Bright Horizons was in a converted office building in Pasadena. Gray carpet. Fluorescent lights. A waiting room that smelled like coffee and anxiety.

Susan met them at the door. Professional blazer. Clipboard. A smile that made her eyes crinkle in the corners. Her shadow stood exactly three feet to her left, perfectly aligned.

"Mr. and Mrs. Palmer. Come with me."

They followed her down a hallway lined with closed doors. Rachel could hear babies crying behind some of them. Others were silent.

Susan stopped at room 7. "Before we go in, I need to review something with you. The birth mother passed away unexpectedly. The baby is six weeks old. Healthy. No medical concerns. The adoption is fully legal and finalized."

"Passed away?" David's voice was careful. "Recently?"

"Two weeks ago. The baby has been in temporary care since then. All the paperwork is complete. She's yours if you want her."

Rachel and David looked at each other. Two weeks. That was fast.

"Can we see her?" Rachel asked.

Susan opened the door.

The room was small. A crib against one wall. A rocking chair. Big windows facing south. Afternoon light streaming through.

The baby was sleeping in the crib.

She was perfect. Tiny. Dark hair. Little fists curled against her chest.

Rachel walked to the crib. Looked down at her daughter. At the child they'd been waiting three years to meet.

The baby's shadow fell across the white sheet. Normal. Expected.

Except the shadow's hands were too big.

Rachel blinked. Looked again. The baby's fists were tiny. Newborn-sized. But the shadow's hands looked like adult hands. Long fingers. Broad palms.

"David," Rachel said quietly. "Look at her shadow."

David moved to the crib. Stared down at the mismatched shadow.

"That's...unusual," he said.

"Shadow development is variable in infants," Susan said from the doorway. Her voice was smooth. Practiced. "Some babies take longer to establish shadow coherence. It's nothing to worry about."

"Her shadow's hands are adult-sized," Rachel said. "That's not developmental variation."

"I assure you, Mrs. Palmer, this is within normal parameters."

Rachel looked at Susan. At the way her shadow stayed perfectly still.

"How did the birth mother die?" Rachel asked.

Susan's shadow shifted slightly. Just a fraction of an inch backward.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss details. The adoption is closed. No contact with birth family."

"I'm not asking for contact. I'm asking how she died."

Susan hesitated. "She fell from her apartment balcony. Fourth floor. It was ruled an accident."

"When?"

"Early March. Two weeks ago now."

Rachel felt David's hand on her arm. "The baby was in the apartment?"

"Yes. Unharmed. A neighbor heard crying and called the police." Susan's voice was careful. Professional. "The infant was taken into protective custody immediately. That's when we got involved."

Rachel lifted the baby from the crib. The infant made a small sound but didn't wake. Warm. Real. Perfect.

The shadow on the floor beneath them was wrong.

The baby's head was tiny against Rachel's chest. The shadow's head looked like a teenager's. Maybe older.

And the shadow's posture was different. The baby was curled into Rachel, trusting and small. The shadow looked tense. Guarded. Protective.

"This isn't her shadow," Rachel said quietly.

Susan didn't respond.

"This is the birth mother's shadow. Isn't it?"

"Mrs. Palmer—"

"The mother died and her shadow stayed with the baby."

Susan's face finally changed. Something cracked in her professional mask.

"Yes," she said quietly. "We don't know why. We don't know how long it will last. But yes. The mother's shadow separated during her death and attached to the infant."

"Has this happened before?"

"A few times. We're tracking it. Documenting it." Susan moved to the rocking chair. Sat down. "The families are told there may be developmental abnormalities. Shadow discord. But we don't tell them this. We don't tell them their baby is being protected by someone else's shadow."

Rachel held the baby tighter. Looked at the shadow. At the hands that belonged to a dead woman. At the posture that screamed protection.

"How many?" David asked.

"Nine total. Including this one."

"And you're studying them."

"We're trying to help them. Trying to understand what it means."

Rachel looked down at the baby in her arms. At the life they'd been waiting three years to have.

"We're taking her," Rachel said.

They named her Jenna.

Close enough to Jennifer, the birth mother's name. Different enough that she was her own person.

The first few weeks were normal. Jenna slept. Ate. Cried. Did everything babies do.

Her shadow stayed wrong.

Adult hands. Protective posture. Defensive body language when strangers came near.

Rachel started documenting it. Photos. Videos. Notes about when the shadow acted most defensive, most protective.

David thought she was being paranoid. But he didn't stop her.

By week six, they'd developed a routine. Rachel worked from home three days a week. David handled the other two. They were exhausted but happy.

And Jenna's shadow kept watch over everything.

It flinched when men came near. Relaxed when Rachel held her. Stayed alert when David carried her, but didn't react the way it did with male strangers.

"It's like she knows we're safe," David said one night. "Like Jennifer's shadow trusts us."

"Maybe it does."

They were too tired to think about the implications.

Rachel's brother called in August.

"Hey, sorry I've been MIA. Work's been insane. Can I come by this weekend? Finally meet my niece?"

Richard. Rachel's younger brother. They'd been close growing up. Less close as adults. He worked in finance. Long hours. They saw each other maybe four times a year.

"Of course," Rachel said. "Sunday afternoon?"

"Perfect. I'll bring lunch."

Rachel hung up and felt something cold in her chest. She didn't know why.

Sunday afternoon, Richard showed up with Thai food and a teddy bear.

"Sorry it took me so long," he said, hugging Rachel. "I've been swamped. New accounts. New headaches."

He looked good. Tan. Rested. His shadow fell normally behind him in the afternoon light.

They ate in the living room. Jenna was napping upstairs. Rachel had put her down twenty minutes before Richard arrived.

"So how's fatherhood?" Richard asked David.

"Terrifying. Amazing. I haven't slept in months."

"Worth it though?"

"Every second."

Richard smiled. Took a bite of pad thai. "I get that. Been thinking about settling down myself actually. Was dating someone earlier this year but it didn't work out."

"Anyone we know?" Rachel asked.

"Nah. Met her online. Only lasted a few months." He shrugged. "She had some issues. Mental health stuff. I tried to be supportive but it was too much."

The baby monitor crackled. Jenna was waking up.

"I'll get her," Rachel said.

She was halfway up the stairs when she heard Richard's voice drift from the living room.

"You ever think about how fragile things are? One wrong step and everything changes."

David murmured something she couldn't hear.

Rachel's hand tightened on the railing.

She was eight years old, high in the oak tree in their backyard. Richard behind her on the branch. Then falling. The snap of the branch, everyone said later. Just an accident.

But her shadow had seen what he did.

"Sorry, dark thought. Work stress."

Rachel paused on the landing, then continued up.

"Come on, sweet girl. Let's go meet your uncle."

She walked downstairs. Jenna awake now. Looking around with those bright baby eyes.

Richard stood up when he saw them. That smile. That genuine, warm smile she'd known her whole life.

"There she is," he said. "There's my niece."

He moved toward them. Arms out. Ready to hold her.

And Jenna's shadow did something strange.

It pulled back. Folded in on itself. Made the baby's body look smaller, more compact. Like it was trying to hide her. Trying to make her invisible.

David saw it happen. Saw Jennifer's shadow look up. Not at Rachel. At Rachel's shadow.

And Rachel's shadow reached down. Toward the baby. Protective. Maternal.

Like the shadows were communicating. Like Jennifer's shadow was asking for help.

"Can I hold her?" Richard asked.

David moved before he thought about it. Positioned himself next to Rachel. Between Richard and the baby.

Rachel felt his presence, looked at him confused for a second.

"She's still waking up," Rachel said, her arms tightening around Jenna without meaning to. "Fussy after naps."

"I don't mind."

He was three feet away now. His shadow stretching across the floor toward them.

Jenna's shadow pressed itself flat against Rachel. Completely flat. No depth. No dimension. Like it was trying to disappear into her.

The baby started crying. Not the normal fussy cry. Something desperate. Panicked.

"Maybe another time," David said. He'd moved to stand next to Rachel. Between Richard and the baby.

Richard stopped. Looked at them both. At the way they'd positioned themselves.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, she's just—she does this around men sometimes," Rachel said. "Still getting used to male voices. She'll warm up to you."

"Right, yeah. Makes sense."

Richard's phone rang. He pulled it out. Frowned at the screen.

"Shit. I have to take this." He stepped toward the kitchen. "One second."

They could hear his voice. Low. Urgent. "When?...Are you sure?...Okay, I'm leaving now."

He came back. Face different. Tense.

"I have to go. Work emergency. Client crisis." He grabbed his jacket. "Rain check on holding my niece?"

"Of course," Rachel said.

He moved toward the door. Stopped with his hand on the knob. Looked back at them. At Jenna in Rachel's arms.

At Jenna's shadow, still pressed flat and small against Rachel, trying to hide.

"Cute kid," Richard said. Something in his voice had changed. "Really. She's perfect."

He paused at the threshold.

"She's got her mother's eyes."

The door closed behind him.