What Shows

Dr. James Whitmore had been a shadow therapist for twelve years.

He was good at it. Better than good. His client retention rate was ninety-three percent. People traveled across state lines to see him. Other therapists sent him their worst cases.

The ones who couldn't control their shadows no matter what they tried.

James could fix them in six sessions or less.

"Dr. Whitmore?" His assistant's voice through the intercom. "Your ten o'clock is here."

"Send them in."

He heard the door open. Footsteps. Hesitant. A woman. Mid-thirties probably, based on the click of professional heels and the rhythm of her walk.

"Ms. Harris," James said, gesturing to the chair he kept positioned exactly four feet from his desk. "Please, sit."

The chair creaked slightly as she sat. Good. She was nervous. The leather made a specific sound when someone was tense.

"Thank you for seeing me on short notice," she said. Her voice was tight. Controlled. "I've been having...difficulties."

"Tell me about them."

"My shadow. It won't cooperate. During meetings, it. It reaches for things I don't want. Shows things I'm trying to hide."

Standard case. Shadow discord from suppression. James had worked through it a hundred times with different clients.

"When did this start?" he asked.

"Six months ago. After my promotion. I'm a VP now. Lots of high-stakes negotiations. I need perfect shadow control and I just." Her voice cracked. "I can't make it behave."

James pulled out his recorder. Clicked it on. "I'm going to ask you some questions. Standard intake. Just answer honestly."

He heard her shift in the chair. The leather creaked differently this time. Relief, maybe. People always relaxed when he said to be honest.

They didn't realize that's what made his method work.

"Do you remember when you first learned shadow management?"

"Five years old. My mother taught me. She said I needed to control my thoughts if I wanted to control my shadow."

"And did it work?"

"For a long time, yes."

"What changed six months ago?"

Silence. Then, quietly: "I stopped believing in what I was doing."

"Your job?"

"My life. My marriage. The way I've been performing success for fifteen years." Her breathing was faster now. Shallow. "I don't want any of it. But I can't say that. Can't even think it. Except my shadow knows. My shadow shows it every time I try to pretend I'm okay."

James nodded. Let the silence sit. This was the moment. The crack in the performance.

"Ms. Harris," he said after a long moment. "Do you know why people come to me?"

"Because you're the best shadow therapist in the city."

"That's what they think. But that's not why they get better." He leaned forward slightly. Heard his chair shift. "They get better because I teach them something different than other therapists."

"What's that?"

"I teach them that shadow management isn't about control. It's about honesty."

He could hear her breathing change. Confusion, probably.

"But everyone says shadow management is about controlling your thoughts. Suppressing impulses. Maintaining discipline."

"Everyone is wrong." James kept his voice level. Matter-of-fact. "You can't control a shadow by suppressing what it wants to show. You can only exhaust yourself trying. Shadow management isn't about control. It's about alignment."

"I don't understand."

"Your shadow is showing your truth. The truth you're suppressing. The disconnect is what's killing you." James tapped his desk. The sound helped him think. "You have two choices. Change your life to match what your shadow wants to show. Or accept that your shadow will keep revealing what you're hiding."

"So you're saying I should just. Quit my job? Leave my marriage?"

"I'm saying you should stop performing. The shadow discord will resolve itself once you're honest about what you actually want."

More silence. Then: "That's not what other therapists say."

"Other therapists teach control. Suppression. Performance." James smiled slightly. "I teach truth. That's why my success rate is higher."

He heard her stand. The chair creaked. Her footsteps moved toward the door, then stopped.

"Dr. Whitmore," she said. Her voice was different now. Uncertain. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"How did you learn this? This approach?"

"I learned it differently than most people."

"Differently how?"

James was quiet for a moment. Then: "I learned that trying to control what people see is exhausting. And ultimately pointless. The truth shows no matter what you do."

She left. He heard the door close softly.

James sat in his office for a few minutes. Listening to the silence. Then he stood and walked to where he kept his cane. Right side of the desk. Always in the same spot.

His assistant knocked and came in. "That was fast. She okay?"

"She'll be fine. Schedule her for next week." James ran his hand along the edge of his desk. Orienting himself. "Who's next?"

"Mr. Patterson. Two o'clock. Shadow separation case."

"Right. The one whose shadow left during his daughter's wedding."

"Yeah. He's pretty shaken up. Says he doesn't understand why. Says he was happy for her."

"His shadow knew different."

James heard his assistant move toward the door, then pause. "Dr. Whitmore. Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"How do you do it? Everyone who comes here talks about how you just. You see things other therapists miss. How you understand shadows better than people who've studied them for decades."

James smiled. "I pay attention. That's all."

"But you pay attention to different things. Like you hear something the rest of us don't."

"Maybe I do."

She smiled in a way that crinkled the corners of her eyes.

After she left, James walked the perimeter of his office. Counting steps. Memorizing the space. He'd been doing this for twelve years. Knew every corner. Every piece of furniture.

He'd set up the office specifically. Chair for clients positioned in the brightest spot. Big windows facing south. Maximum natural light. Perfect for shadows.

Perfect for people to see shadows clearly.

His phone buzzed. A text from Giselle, his partner.

"Dinner tonight? Thai place on Seventh?"

James texted back. "Can't. Late session. Tomorrow?"

"Sure. Love you."

"Love you too."

James put his phone down. Ran his hand over the braille notes he'd made during the session with Ms. Harris. His assistant would transcribe them later. She always did.

She was good about that.