I saw my shadow move when I didn’t.
It was early evening in Kyoto, the kind of quiet hour when the air feels too still, and the sky is a deep violet before night takes over. Yuki was walking home from cram school, her backpack heavy and her steps echoing through narrow streets lined with wooden houses. The lanterns had just come on, swaying faintly in the wind. That’s when she noticed it—her shadow wasn’t quite right.
At first, it lagged behind, like a slow echo. She stopped. It didn’t.
Her breath caught. She blinked, and it froze again, matching her shape perfectly. Maybe her eyes were tired. Maybe she was imagining things. She started walking faster. The shadow followed.
Kyoto’s alleys at night could be beautiful or terrifying, depending on how your mind worked. For Yuki, they were both. The air smelled of rain and stone, and the sound of a distant temple bell rolled softly across the rooftops. She turned onto a quiet lane and looked down again.
Her shadow was gone.
She froze. The ground beneath her feet was smooth and pale under the streetlight. There should have been a shadow, but there wasn’t. Only light, stretching out empty.
A chill crept up her spine.
Behind her, a soft shuffle broke the silence.
She turned. Nothing. Just the same empty street.
Yuki ran the rest of the way home.
Her grandmother, who lived with her, was in the kitchen, slicing daikon for soup. “You’re pale, child,” she said, not looking up. “You saw something, didn’t you?”
Yuki hesitated. “I think… my shadow disappeared.”
Grandmother’s knife paused mid-air. The old woman looked up slowly, her cloudy eyes sharp despite the years. “When a shadow leaves, it means something else has taken its place.”
Yuki frowned. “Something else?”
Grandmother only nodded and went back to cutting. “Stay in bright light tonight.”
The words stayed with Yuki long after dinner.
Her room was small but cozy, lined with anime posters and stacks of books. She switched on her desk lamp, flooding the space with warm light. But even then, she couldn’t stop glancing at the floor. Her shadow was back—where it should be. But somehow it looked darker.
As she reached to turn a page, the lamp flickered.
And her shadow’s hand didn’t move.
The light blinked twice more, and then the bulb went out completely.
Darkness swallowed the room.
“Not funny,” Yuki whispered to no one. She grabbed her phone to use the flashlight. When the light came on, she aimed it at the wall—her shadow stood tall and still, the edges sharp.
But then, slowly, it lifted its hand and waved.
Yuki dropped her phone. The light spun across the floor, bouncing wildly, shadows shifting everywhere. She lunged to grab it, heart hammering, but before she could, something cold brushed her ankle. She froze.
“Yuki…”
The whisper was faint, like wind through paper.
Her breath hitched. “Who’s there?”
The air turned icy. Her books rustled on their own. The window trembled though it was closed.
Then, from the darkness, her shadow stepped forward.
It didn’t peel off the wall—it flowed out, like ink in water, shaping into something almost human. A black outline of her own body, except the face was smooth and featureless. It tilted its head at her, curious.
Yuki stumbled back. “Stay away!”
The shadow tilted its head again, mimicking her fear.
And then—it smiled.
No mouth should have been there, but it smiled anyway, a thin white curve appearing out of the dark.
Yuki bolted for the door, flung it open, and ran down the hall. Grandmother’s room was dark too. “Obaa-san!” she cried. “It’s here!”
The old woman appeared in the doorway, holding a small paper charm. “I told you to stay in the light,” she said softly. “The Kage-onna follows those who forget their prayers. Once she chooses, she won’t let go.”
“The what?” Yuki’s voice trembled.
“The shadow woman,” Grandmother said. “A spirit that lost her own body long ago. She finds others to live through. You must not show fear.”
“I’m already scared!”
“Then she’s already winning.”
A sound came from Yuki’s room—a faint laugh, childlike but wrong.
The lights down the hall began to blink off one by one.
Grandmother pressed the charm into Yuki’s hand. “Go to the temple. The light there can drive her away.”
“But what about you?”
“Go!”
Yuki didn’t argue. She slipped on her shoes, clutched the charm, and ran into the night.
Outside, the streets were nearly empty. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and still. Every light she passed flickered. Her shadow stretched along the ground, darker than the night itself, sliding ahead of her instead of following behind.
She ran faster.
Lanterns dimmed as she passed. The air buzzed like an old TV. She could hear footsteps behind her, echoing hers—but when she looked back, no one was there.
“Almost there,” she whispered to herself. The temple gate was just ahead, its wooden beams glowing faintly gold under the lamps.
Then the lamps went out.
Her own reflection flickered in a puddle—except in it, she wasn’t running. The girl in the water stood perfectly still. And smiling.
Yuki screamed and sprinted through the gate. The temple courtyard was dark except for a single candle burning before the shrine. She dropped to her knees in front of it, clutching the charm so hard it dug into her palm.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please stop.”
The shadow caught up. It circled her like smoke, whispering in a hundred voices at once. You left the light. You left the light.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “What do you want?”
The whisper came from right beside her ear. To be you.
The candle flared suddenly, light bursting across the courtyard. The shadow screamed—or something close to it—and recoiled, its shape twisting, unraveling into black ribbons that melted into the air.
Yuki gasped, staring at the candlelight flickering on her trembling hands. Slowly, she lifted her head. Her shadow lay flat and quiet on the ground where it belonged.
It was over.
Or so she thought.
Days passed. Life returned to normal. She didn’t talk about it, though sometimes she caught her grandmother staring at her with worry in her eyes. Yuki avoided dark places, slept with the lamp on, and stayed near light whenever she could.
But one night, a week later, she forgot.
Her lamp went out while she was drawing. She sighed, too tired to get up. “It’s fine,” she murmured, turning toward her window. Moonlight spilled gently into the room, soft and silver.
Then, on the paper she’d been sketching, her pencil moved on its own.
It drew a single black line. Then another. And another.
The lines formed a smile.
Yuki’s heart stopped. She looked down—her hand wasn’t holding the pencil anymore. But her shadow was.
The lines grew darker, heavier, until they filled the whole page in black.
From the corner of her room came the soft sound of something stepping out of the wall.
“Yuki,” it whispered again, in her own voice this time, smooth and sure. “You left the light.”
