Behind the old cinema, stray shadows gathered, detached from owners by bright hospital lights, careless deals, or simple neglect. The city, tired of odd flickers and complaint calls about “unauthorized silhouettes,” opened a Shadow Adoption Agency. Its front door was hard to find; you had to stand between streetlights just right. Inside, the waiting room was dim by design. Shadows pressed against walls like shy cats.
Lian arrived after losing her shadow during a hospital stay where fluorescent lamps and anesthesia washed it away. She felt unmoored without the grounding smudge on sidewalks. The agency counselor, Mr. Hu, slid over a clipboard. “Preferences?” it asked: “quiet, playful, clingy, independent.” Lian checked “curious.” Mr. Hu led her to the playroom where shadows swam across the floor. One in the shape of a fern frond lingered by her foot. It mimicked her step, a beat behind. “That’s Fennel,” Mr. Hu whispered. “Left behind by a botanist who moved to the Arctic.”
Adoption required orientation. Shadows had histories. Some carried habits: standing where their old owners liked to smoke, shrinking from cameras, tapping to unseen music. Lian spent trial days with Fennel. At first it clung too tight, curling around her ankles when crossing streets. She reassured it softly, reading aloud from books so it learned her rhythms. Fennel relaxed, stretching long during sunsets, playing with lamp posts. On adoption day, they signed papers with ink and darkness. Lian promised to provide regular light and emotional transparency. Fennel promised to stick around unless properly vacationed.
Not all adoptions went smoothly. One shadow refused to attach, preferring walls. The agency offered “integration classes” for humans and shadows—lessons on boundaries, consent, and shadow selfhood. A trend of treating shadows as accessories emerged on social media: people borrowing edgy silhouettes for photos. The agency pushed back, launching campaigns: “Shadows are companions, not filters.” Regulations followed: no renting, no swapping without consent.
Lian noticed Fennel sometimes slipped toward the alley behind the cinema, visiting unattached friends. She allowed supervised playdates. She joined the agency as a volunteer, helping pair shadows with widowers, refugees, and people recovering from surgeries that left them feeling translucent. She saw how a steady shadow could steady a person.
One day, a powerful politician tried to adopt multiple shadows “for presence.” The agency refused. He threatened funding cuts. Shadows in the room elongated menacingly. He left quickly. The refusal sparked a debate about shadow rights. The city council, under pressure from citizens who’d adopted, passed an ordinance: shadows had agency; they could refuse attachment. Consent went both ways.
Years passed. The alley emptied. Most shadows found homes. Those that didn’t became part of the agency’s “community shadows,” available for short-term companionship for patients in palliative care or kids scared of the dark. Lian grew older. Fennel changed with her, edges softer. They took walks at dusk, their joined form long and strange, beautiful to those who noticed.
When Lian died, she left instructions: Fennel could choose. Fennel stayed at the agency, curling near grieving adopters, offering weight. Mr. Hu retired; a new counselor took over, shadow dutifully at his heels. The agency remained dim, a sanctuary reminding the city that even the thinnest parts of us deserve care, contracts, and the right to roam under a trustworthy light.