Lucy was becoming increasingly concerned about her shadow. It was definitely fading.
She looked down at her feet. Even in the early afternoon’s bright winter sun, there was nothing to show but an indistinct, grey penumbra. Stretched out along the frozen ground from the gnomon of her legs, it looked like a silhouette drawn charcoal and then half erased.
When Lucy was younger she’d never had such problems.
At 13, her shadow had been as dark and cold as the bottom of the oceans.
At 16, it was black as pitch and distinct from everything around it, with sharp, precise edges. If she spent too long standing on her parents lawn, the grass beneath her shade would eventually die, leaving a shadow of her shadow.
At 18, it would draw things into it and she would never see them again – light, warmth, smoke, boys.
But now she was sure it grew fainter with every passing day. And she didn’t quite know what that meant.