The café had just opened when he walked in.
A tall man in a dark coat, shoulders damp from the lingering mist outside. His steps were slow, deliberate—as if he was dragging something unseen behind him.
The chef glanced up from behind the counter.
The man took a seat.
A polite nod. A measured breath.
"Cold night," he said.
The chef said nothing. He glanced toward the door.
The night wasn’t cold.
Not in the way that mattered.
But there was something about this man.
Something off.
The way he sat, the way the air around him felt heavier than it should.
And then the chef saw it.
His shadow.
It wasn’t normal.
Most shadows stretched behind their owners. This one didn’t.
It moved ahead of him. Just slightly. Almost like it was deciding whether it wanted to stay attached at all.
The chef exhaled softly.
He had seen things.
Things that didn’t belong in the world. Things that slipped through cracks in reality and latched onto people who didn’t know any better.
He wiped his hands on his apron.
“What would you like?” he asked.
The man smiled.
“A meal that doesn’t belong to me.”
The café stilled.
The chef knew what that meant.
He had heard it before. From people who weren’t just people. From things that sat where they shouldn’t, wearing faces that were too smooth, too perfect.
He studied the man carefully.
Then, slowly—"Why?"
The man tilted his head.
“Because it follows me.”
His voice was quiet, almost detached.
The chef’s gaze flicked to the shadow again.
It flickered—just for a second. Like something alive.
Not just a trick of the light. Not just a coincidence.
This man—was carrying something.
Without another word, the chef turned to the stove.
A meal meant for the lost.
He prepared rice, steaming and fresh. A soft-boiled egg, its yolk golden. A light drizzle of soy sauce.
Simple. Comforting. Grounding.
He placed it in front of the man.
For the first time, the shadow hesitated.
The man picked up his chopsticks.
The moment he took a bite—
The café shifted.
Something in the air exhaled.
The chef watched as the man stilled. As if something had just let go.
Then—
The shadow twitched.
And peeled away.
Not fast. Not violently. Slowly.
It slid off him like ink in water, pooling on the floor, stretching toward the doorway—
And then—
It was gone.
The café was silent.
The man exhaled.
He set his chopsticks down.
For the first time, his shoulders relaxed.
“…I feel like I just woke up,” he murmured.
The chef nodded.
The man chuckled, rubbing his face. “I think I carried that thing for too long.”
He reached into his coat, placing a single coin on the counter.
The chef looked at it.
A worn, old yen coin.
One that had been out of circulation for over fifty years.
The chef didn’t react.
He simply nodded.
The man stood.
As he left, his footsteps finally made a sound.
And for the first time in a long time—
He cast no shadow at all.
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