The Hour Your Shadow Chose Another Wall

I knew the truth before you spoke because your shadow fell against the far wall and refused to return to your feet when you stepped closer to me.

The room smelled of dust and old sunlight and the clock ticked too loudly as if trying to fill the space where your weight should have been. I reached out without thinking and stopped myself inches from your sleeve. You watched the motion with a careful stillness and lowered your eyes. Outside the evening cooled and the city exhaled. Whatever had brought you back had already decided how this would end.

We met in the watchmakers shop where time gathered in pieces and refused to move forward. I had taken the job because the owner did not ask questions and because the back room stayed dim even at noon. Shelves held clocks in various states of waiting faces open like small mouths. When you appeared in the doorway the bells did not ring.

You asked if the shop was open though the sign clearly said it was. Your voice sounded near and far at once. I said yes and returned to my work but felt your attention like a pressure at my shoulder. You stood among the clocks listening. When one chimed you flinched. I asked if the sound bothered you. You said no but your eyes said otherwise.

You came every afternoon at the same hour. You never wore a watch. You asked about the mechanisms and listened intently when I explained though you never touched anything. I noticed then that the clocks nearest you ran slow. The owner did not. He moved around you as if around a column.

One day you told me you had died waiting for a train that never arrived. You said it simply as if discussing weather. I did not laugh. I did not question. I felt instead a soft grief open like a door. You watched me closely and seemed relieved by my quiet.

After that the shop felt different. The air cooled when you entered. Light bent slightly around your shoulders. When our hands nearly brushed I felt a sharp cold followed by warmth like a pulse. You apologized often. I told you not to. We learned to sit with space between us and let the wanting settle into something bearable.

We spoke of small things. Of the city at dawn. Of the sound of trains at night. You said you remembered the platform smell of oil and rain. You said you stayed because the hour here felt unfinished. I understood without knowing why.

Weeks passed. You began to fade at the edges sometimes flickering like a reflection in moving water. The clocks grew erratic. The owner complained and blamed the wiring. I stayed late with you listening to the building breathe. Once the power failed and we stood in the dark counting seconds together. When the lights returned you looked thinner.

You told me the boundary was shifting. That something else was calling you back to the hour you had missed. I felt panic rise and pressed it down. I asked if love could anchor you. You smiled sadly and said love made the leaving clearer.

The final afternoon arrived quietly. Sunlight pooled on the floor. You stood closer than usual. Your shadow slid away from you and settled against another wall like it had found its place. I understood then what you had already accepted.

I said your name. You answered. I lifted my hand and this time did not stop. Our fingers met briefly solid enough to ache. The cold burned and then softened. You closed your eyes and breathed though you did not need to. The clocks chimed together and then fell silent.

You stepped back. Your shadow stayed. You thanked me for the hour. You turned and the doorway held you for a moment longer than it should have. Then you were gone and time resumed its uneven march.

Now when the shop grows quiet I feel a pressure at my shoulder and hear a train in the distance. I do not reach out. I let the hour pass. Loving you taught me that some moments are complete because they end.