The child first sensed something was amiss the moment she stopped.
It wasn't an abrupt halt.
Rather, as if prompted by something, her pace naturally slowed mid-stride until she came to a standstill. Without turning back or looking up, she stood in the center of the narrow street, leaning forward slightly as if listening.
The child hid behind the corner.
He had been following her for a long time.
From before dusk until now, when streetlights flickered on one by one. Her route held no pattern—she didn't seem to be heading home, nor searching for any specific place. She simply walked on, through streets, underpasses, alleys behind abandoned shops, pausing occasionally for seconds before moving forward again.
The child dared not get too close.
Not out of fear of being discovered, but because that distance existed inherently. As if an invisible boundary hung in the air—cross it, and something beyond his comprehension would unfold.
When she stopped, no one else was around.
The street was old, the pavement uneven. The light from the streetlamp cast a yellowish glow, as if dust had settled over it. In the distance, an iron gate swayed gently in the wind, making a rhythmic yet unsettling sound.
She stood there, motionless.
The child stared at her back for a long time.
In that moment, a strange thought suddenly occurred to him—
She wasn't waiting for him.
The thought startled him even as it formed.
If she wasn't waiting for him, then what was she waiting for?
She slowly lifted her head.
From the child's angle, her expression was obscured, visible only her jawline and neck. Her neck seemed longer than he remembered, her skin stretched taut beneath the lamplight, as if pulled upward by some unseen force.
She drew in a breath.
Not a deep breath.
More like nodding to some decision.
The next second, she turned.
The movement was swift, without transition. The child instinctively drew back slightly, his back pressing against the cold wall, his breath catching for a moment.
She didn't look at him.
Her gaze fell on the other end of the street.
There, there should have been nothing.
The child followed her line of sight and saw a figure slowly emerge from the shadows.
It was a man.
He wore a dark coat, his steps dragging slightly, as if he'd just gotten off work or was simply tired from walking. Head bowed, hands tucked into his pockets, he showed little awareness of his surroundings.
He didn't notice her.
At least not at first.
She stood rooted to the spot, neither moving nor making a sound. She simply watched him approach, as if observing a process already underway.
When he reached about five or six paces away, he finally sensed something amiss and lifted his head.
He froze.
The child watched his expression shift from puzzlement to confusion, then slowly cloud over with unease.
"...Excuse me," the man said, his voice jarring in the night. "You're blocking the path."
She didn't respond.
He waited two seconds, stepping slightly aside to prepare to pass.
The instant he shifted his body, she moved.
Not lunging forward.
Just taking a step.
A tiny step.
Yet it made the man halt.
"You..." He frowned. "Are you feeling unwell?"
She lifted her face.
The child's heart sank abruptly.
Not because of the expression.
But because—
That face was too normal.
Her eyebrows, eyes, the curve of her lips, the contours of her skin—every detail matched the mother he remembered. That flawless normality felt wrong, like a precise replica placed where it shouldn't belong.
"Did you see him?" she asked.
Her voice was soft.
The man froze.
"Who?" He instinctively turned to look back the way he'd come.
The street was empty.
No one else was there.
When the man turned back, his expression had changed.
"What are you talking about?" His tone grew guarded. "There's only us here."
She stared at him, unblinking.
"You didn't see him," she said.
As if recording a fact.
The man took a step back.
"Don't scare me," he said. "I'm just passing through."
She took another step forward.
This time, the child saw the change clearly.
Her shadow hadn't followed.
The streetlight illuminated her, yet only the man's shadow lay on the ground—stretched long and swaying slightly.
The man glanced down too.
His breathing immediately grew ragged.
"You..." His voice tightened. "Don't come any closer."
She stopped.
Her head tilted slightly, as if reassessing.
"You can hear me," she said.
The man froze.
"What?"
"You hear my voice," she said, "but you can't see him."
The child's fingernails dug into his palms.
He understood.
She hadn't stopped for the child.
She was judging.
Assessing where this man truly stood.
The man's breathing spiraled out of control.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he trembled. "I'm leaving."
The instant he turned, she reached out.
The hand moved slowly.
Slow enough for the child to see each finger unfurl.
The hand didn't touch the man.
It froze in midair.
As if grasping something.
The man froze abruptly.
A short, sharp sound escaped his throat, like air forcibly cut off.
He began to struggle.
His body lurched forward, yet it felt as if an invisible force was choking his neck.
"Let me go—" his voice cracked—"Let me go!"
Her hand tightened gently.
The man's shadow began to warp.
His head elongated, shoulders slumped, as if reshaped from another angle.
Her shadow, however, remained nonexistent.
Seconds later, it ended.
The man collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath like he'd been dragged from water. Eyes wide but unfocused.
She withdrew her hand.
Her movements remained gentle.
She looked down at him, as if inspecting something that had ceased to function.
"You're useless," she said.
The man didn't respond.
She turned and walked away.
Her steps quickened again, as if she'd crossed some threshold where lingering was no longer necessary.
The child stood rooted to the spot, motionless for a long time.
The man lay on the ground, his body still twitching slightly, yet he never got up.
The street fell silent once more.
But this silence was different from before.
The child slowly realized something:
There was more than one like her.
She was merely the first to be identified.
And in this city, there were many others like that man—
walking the streets, breathing, speaking, making choices,
utterly unaware of what was dividing them.
The child slid down the wall, settling onto the ground.
He dared not cry.
For he suddenly understood: if she turned back,
she might no longer need to "recognize him"
to know he was here.
And if that were the case—
whether she still saw him as a child
no longer mattered.