Shadow by T H White

Tom Mitchell had lived alone for longer than he could remember. His wife, Lily, had passed away a decade ago, and their children had long since moved away, caught in lives of their own. The house, once filled with laughter and warmth, now echoed with a quiet, unrelenting stillness. Even the walls seemed to breathe differently, like they were holding their breath, waiting for something – or someone.

It started on an evening in early autumn, when the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the creaking wooden floor. Tom sat in his old armchair by the window, a well-worn book resting in his lap. The silence around him was absolute, the kind that only an old house could produce, where the stillness was heavy, like an unspoken secret.

That’s when he noticed it.

At first, it was just a flicker in the corner of his eye — a shifting shape that seemed to follow him as he moved. He dismissed it as a trick of the light or his tired eyes, but the feeling persisted. He’d stand up, and the shadow would shift with him, always just out of the corner of his vision, never quite in the light.

Restless in the early hours, Tom wandered through his empty house, not sure what he was trying to find. Back in the bedroom, he picked up the photo of Lily as his new bride. He traced a finger over the frame, the glass cool beneath his touch. Lily’s smile—captured in warm, afternoon light—was as radiant as he remembered. “You always said I was terrible at being alone,” he murmured, the silence swallowing his words. “Guess you were right.” The faintest scent of honeysuckle drifted through the open window and Tom smiled.

The next evening, it happened again. The shape was more distinct this time, darker than the surrounding shadows, as though it had weight, form. Tom had never been one to believe in ghosts, but the presence in the room was undeniable. Something was there.

“Who’s there?” Tom called out into the empty room. His voice, weak from years of disuse, seemed to hang in the air for a moment before falling away into the silence.

No answer.

He waited, straining to hear anything. A sigh, a rustle, a whisper — anything. But the room remained still.

“Are you… are you real?” Tom whispered, more to himself than to whatever might be lurking in the shadows. He felt foolish, but the loneliness weighed on him so heavily these days that he couldn’t stop himself from speaking out loud. Sometimes, he thought he was speaking to the ghosts of his past, to Lily, to the children, to anyone who might listen.

The following night, the shadow was waiting for him again. It was closer this time, standing by the edge of the door, its shape darker and more defined. There was no sound, no movement, but Tom could feel its presence, as palpable as the old rocking chair in the corner of the room.

“Hello?” Tom said, voice trembling. “Are you… are you a ghost?”

The shadow shifted slightly, oddly impatient.

“Are you lonely too?” he asked quietly, half-expecting the question to sound ridiculous.

But to his surprise, the shadow seemed to respond. It stretched just a little closer, inching toward him, its form becoming more distinct, less like an absence, and more like a presence. Tom’s heart raced, but there was something oddly comforting in the way it moved — like a silent companion, a visitor from a time long gone. A memory become incarnate.

Every night at dusk, the shadow returned. It followed him like a lost puppy, and Tom For several nights, Tom tried to ignore it. He left lights on, shut his eyes when it flickered in his periphery, told himself he was imagining things. But the silence of the house had weight now, pressing down on him. And when he finally turned toward the dark corner, the shadow was waiting

After a while, Tom grew used to the presence, and started talking to it. It was all he had left — this strange, silent visitor. His words began as simple questions, at first: “What are you?” “Why are you here?” But over time, the questions grew less important. The act of speaking became the important thing.

He told the shadow about his life, things done and things undone. About Lily, about the children who never visited. And somehow, with the strange, shifting figure, it felt as if he was talking to someone real, someone who understood. Tom found himself speaking more and more to his unseen companion. He rarely left the house now—just walking to the local shop left him exhausted, his heart hammering strangely. But talking helped.

On the tenth night, the shade grew bolder. It wasn’t just following him anymore; it was mimicking him. Shadowing him. When Tom limped slowly to the kitchen for a glass of water, the shadow followed, perfectly matching his movements. When he paused, the shadow paused. When he sat in his armchair, it sat beside him,where Lily once sat, its outline becoming sharper, its form more solid.

“Are you real?” Tom asked, as the shadow’s edges blurred and began to fill in, taking on the faintest shape of a person — a young man, perhaps, though his features were still soft and uncertain, like unmoulded clay.

“Are you me?”

There was no reply. But for the first time, Tom thought he saw something flicker in the other’s eyes — something like recognition. Something like awareness.

When Tom woke the next day, his cheeks were wet. He felt an unsettling stillness inside him. It wasn’t exhaustion. It wasn’t pain. It was something else—something slipping away. He wondered if he should leave, just leave this empty house to the shadows and dust. But, in truth, where could he go?

Day faded to dusk, filling the air with the honeysuckle scent Lily had loved so much. Tom moved slowly to the mirror, his joints aching, his breath shallow. But when he looked at his reflection, his heart clenched. His skin was pale, almost translucent, his edges blurred as though the world was struggling to hold him in place. He lifted a trembling hand to his face, but his fingers were like bones.

Panic swelled inside him.

“No. No, this isn’t right. I’m still here. I have to be here. I am.”

His pulse pounded in his ears, but it was faint, distant, like an echo bouncing off walls too far away. He turned toward the window, where the evening light stretched long across the wooden floor.

And there was the shadow.

Except it wasn’t a shadow anymore.

The figure had weight now, shape—full and undeniable, as though he had always belonged to this house. The face was clearer, the presence steadier. Robust, Fully formed. Tom stared at him, his own mind fragmenting with the realization.

“It’s not a ghost. It’s me.”

A coldness wrapped around Tom’s chest. He turned his gaze to his hands again, flexing his fingers. They no longer looked like flesh. They were wisps of movement, curling and stretching like smoke. The room around him—the old armchair, the books, the life he had clung to—felt just beyond his grasp, as though he were watching it from the other side of a glass he could never break.

His breath shuddered. “Am I… am I fading?”

The young man said nothing. He only looked at Tom with quiet understanding, dark eyes heavy with something Tom couldn’t name.

Tom’s body trembled. Or at least, he thought it did. Could he even feel his body anymore? He tried to step forward, but his foot barely made a sound. I’m slipping. I’m being erased.

Fear surged inside him, rising like a tide. He had been alone for so long, clinging to the weight of his memories, the shape of his life. And now—now he was vanishing, dissolving into the silence he had fought against for years.

“Does it hurt?”

His vision blurred. The walls of the house stretched away, becoming distant, unreachable. He turned back to the young man—the new man—who was now tracing a hand along the worn wooden mantel, his fingers brushing against the space where Tom and Lily had embraced so many times.

Something inside Tom resisted.

“Not yet. Please, not yet.”

He reached out, trying to grasp the armchair, the mantle, anything that could anchor him. His fingers passed through them like mist.

He wasn’t ready.

For the first time in years, he wanted to hold on. To feel the weight of a book in his lap. To hear the creak of the floor beneath his feet. To inhale the essence of honeysuckle at night, to taste the guilty pleasure of crème caramel. To see the first flush of dawn. To know that he was still here.

He thought to run – to flee the house, to escape the thing inside; but his feet never met the floor. He wasn’t running anymore. He wasn’t even standing. The walls stretched away, distant, unreachable.

He turned toward the young man, desperation in his fading form.

“Please,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if any sound had left his lips. “I don’t want to go.”

The young man finally met his gaze. He didn’t speak, but there was something in his expression—something knowing, something gentle.

A promise.

Tom’s breath caught. And in that moment, he understood.

This had always been the way of things. The cycle. The house had been waiting. The shadow had been waiting. And now it was his turn. He stopped resisting. His despair faded, replaced by something else. Not peace, not exactly, but something.

He exhaled — or at least, he thought he did. The breath barely made a sound. His body softened, his outline thinning like mist in the evening light. He felt no weight, no pull. Only stillness. Only release.

The young man reached out a pale hand and Tom reached out his own. Their fingers entwined and Tom was no more than a shadow.

T H White

Image by Arifur Rahman Tushar from Pixabay – the shadow of a male against a sunset sky.