Page 8 of Something Worth Keeping
The shadow in the corner seemed to deepen, as if in response to his thoughts.
“You’re projecting,” Julian told himself. “Shadows don’t have opinions.” But he glanced at the desk drawer anyway, where the impossible token waited in its tissue-paper nest.
The day stretched ahead, empty and unstructured. No work meant noschedule and/or clear objectives, and if he didn’t complete his daily objectives, then his time felt rather meaningless. Julian hated it already.
He opened his research document again, expanding his notes. If he was going to have free time, he might as well use it productively. The shadow entity represented a significant gap in documented paranormal taxonomy. Someone should catalog it properly, and that someone might as well be him.
How many people can say they’ve bumped into a shadow person in an alley? Actually, that’s something else worth researching.
By noon, Julian had compiled 17 different cultural references to shadow guardians, cross-referenced their behavioral patterns, and created a working hypothesis about their feeding mechanisms. The Vane Syndicate member had probablyregistered as a high-concentration corruption source, making him an ideal target. Which meant the entity was likely still hunting in the area.
Julian’s heart rate picked up, but again, he wasn’t feeling fearful. If anything, that flutter in his stomach could be classified as anticipation. “Stop it,” he said out loud. The shadows didn’t respond this time, remaining properly inanimate.
At lunchtime, he made himself a sandwich - turkey, Swiss cheese, mustard, and lettuce arranged in even layers - and ate it while reviewing his notes. The token in his desk drawer seemed to pulse, though that was probably his imagination. Possibly. Probably.
The afternoon light shifted, casting new shadows across his apartment. Julian tracked each one, cataloging their movements against the sun’s position. None of them movedindependently. But the feeling of being watched persisted, a constant pressure between his shoulder blades, which was comforting in a weird way. Julian felt as if someone was standing guard over him.
“That’s concerning,” Julian said to his reflection in the darkened laptop screen. “You should be concerned about that.”
His reflection didn’t look concerned. It looked...interested. He closed the laptop and retrieved the token from his drawer. In the afternoon light, it still seemed to absorb all light, like a miniature void.
He should research what it was made of, run some tests on it, if possible, and document its properties. Instead, Julian wrapped it carefully back in the tissue and returned it to the drawer.
A gift, his mind insisted. Julian didn’t argue this time, although he didn’t add that to his notes.
Night came early in winter. By four-thirty, the sun had nearly set, painting Julian’s apartment in shades of gray and amber. He turned on the desk lamp, creating a small island of light in the growing dark.
The shadows seemed to lean toward him.
Julian leaned back.
“If you’re going to watch me,” he said to the empty room, “you could at least introduce yourself properly. I already know you exist.”
The shadows didn’t answer, but the weighted blanket feeling intensified, wrapping around him like an embrace.
Julian opened his laptop and returned to his research, while the darkness gathered close and kept him company through the evening.
Chapter Four
The human kept talking to the dark.
Cillian was crouched on the rooftop across from Julian’s building, his form barely corporeal, more suggestion than substance. Cold wind passed through him, and yet he didn’t feel it. Below, through the fourth-floor window, Julian sat bathed in lamplight, speaking to shadows that couldn’t answer.
Except Cilliancouldanswer. Just through watching, he’d learned so much about his mate, and now Julian had touched his token, it was almost as though he could read Julian’s thoughts. He’d gained so much information, but for Cillian, it still wasn’t enough. His shadows were straining toward the glass, desperate to manifest, to wrap around his beacon and announce their presence properly.
“No,” Cillian whispered. The sound scattered like ash.
He’d been in the same position since dawn, watching Julian wake and stretch and move through his small space as he went about his day. Every gesture he made was economical, every movement had purpose. Even the way Julian made coffee followed a specific sequence of events - grind the beans, measure the water, and then wait exactly four minutes.
Beautiful. It was all unbearably beautiful.
The shadows coiled tighter around Cillian’s chest, squeezing. They’d been growing more unruly with each passing hour, reaching toward Julian without permission, trying to slip through the window cracks. Twice, Cillian had been forced to drag them back into himself, and the effort left him shaking.
Mine,they whispered.Ours. Touch. Claim. Keep.
“Not yet.” Cillian’s voice fractured into harmonics. “We must be careful.”
But careful was becoming impossible when Julian sat there in his oversized cardigan, hair mussed from running his fingers through it, talking to the darkness as if it might talk back.
