Mira liked her mornings best. The sun always arrived so politely, pressing its light through the curtains like it was a quiet guest.
On such mornings, she could almost believe that life was as gentle as hers looked.
The kettle’s whistle disrupted her thought process.
Upstairs, Asher’s door stood ajar, just as it had, since he was five years of age. He was eighteen years old now. Looking so tall, broad-shouldered, having his voice sound like a baritone rumble. But he still left his door wide open and still let his mom peek in on him before school.
He had always been a good boy.
He was never one to talk back and never one to stay out past curfew.
He helped Mira carry groceries, fixed the broken gate, and even played with the neighbor’s toddler to the delight of the neighbors.
When Mira looked at him, she felt a quiet pride that was almost defiant: “I did this. Yes! I raised a good man.”
Which was why she froze when he came down the stairs that morning with a set jaw and stormy eyes.
“Mum,” he said, almost breathless. “Someone scratched my bike.”
Together, they stepped into the damp compound. The sky still had her grey blouse on, proving that she poured her tears heavily last night.
The bicycle leaned where he had left it, but a long pale line ran across the frame like a scar.
“Maybe it was an accident,” Mira said gently.
“It wasn’t an accident mom,” Asher said. His voice was so cold that for a moment she didn’t recognize it at all. It felt too strange.
And that was when she saw it.
Behind him, a shadow stretched along the wet pavement looking darker than it should have been, having very sharp edges while quivering slightly, as though it was breathing. She blinked hard and it was gone.
“Asher,” she said quietly, feeling her heart suddenly pounding, “come inside.”
He frowned. “Mum, I need to know who….”
“Inside.” Her tone was sharper than she meant, but he obeyed, confused.
At first, Mira told herself that it was just anger. All teenagers got angry right?
But Asher had never been this way.
The first time he slammed the bedroom door, she jumped.
She felt the shock of her life the first time he raised his voice at her. He even looked more shocked than she did, but then, little by little, it became way easier for him.
Easier to walk out, easier to snap at the slightest thing, easier to throw his books down, hard enough to make the table shake.
And every time, she saw that monster — the shadow.
At first it was faint, like a trick of the light. Then it became longer and then darker.
Anytime she heard the edge in Asher’s voice, she heard his father again. And when she saw the shadow grow, she remembered the man who had stood in this same kitchen many years ago, with his fists clenched and a tight jaw, promising he would never lose his temper again but always did.
She had asked Asher’s father to leave, when he was only a baby. The shoutings and the slamming of doors had turned into holes punched in the walls.
And so she had poured everything she had into making sure Asher was different.
For him, the change felt almost good.
When the boys in class mocked him, a hot rush rose in his chest and there was something behind him, whispering, “don’t let them laugh.”
Then he saw that when he obeyed the whisperer and shoved the loudest one, the laughter stopped. That whisper curled warm and sweet around his ribs.
At home, when his mother’s voice was too soft, too careful, too full of pity, the whisper would hiss, “You don’t need her rules and you’re not a child anymore.”
The shadow felt like a friend that understood him better.
It made him bold and dangerous. And he liked it.
Until that night.
The shouting outside was so raw and violent. Mira dropped the dish she was washing and ran barefoot into the street.
Of course, as she guessed, Asher was there with a heaving chest, his fist was pulled back for another punch. The other boy sat on the ground with blood on his lip, cursing through intense tears.
The crowd around them was buzzing, they had their phones out recording, but Mira didn’t care. She only saw her child and that monster behind him.
The shadow was no longer just a shadow.
It now looked like a man, taller than Asher. It had its arms draped over his shoulders like a crown and its head bent close to his, as though whispering into his ear.
“Asher!” she cried.
His head whipped around.
“Mum,” he said, breathless, “he…he…”
“Look behind you.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Look!”
The crowd stirred uneasily. Someone whispered, “What is she even talking about?” “Irresponsible mother”. Another cursed.
But Asher turned. And when he saw it, he felt a lump in his throat.
It was so huge, looking way larger than him, its eyes looked like two pools of night.
“Mira sees it”, the thing whispered inside his head. “She knows and she’s afraid”. But you don’t have to be afraid. Just finish it.
“Mum,” Asher said, his voice barely audible. “You see it too?”
People in the crowd exchanged glances. Someone muttered, “See what?” A few nervous laughs rippled through them.
Mira stepped closer, ignoring the whispers.
“It’s yours, Asher,” she said softly. “It’s been yours all along.”
Asher stared at the thing. Its whisper was louder now, trying to coax him, “Don’t listen to her. You’re strong because of me. You need me.”
“It feels… like me,” Asher admitted, and for a moment his hand twitched as though he might strike again.
“I know.” Mira’s voice shook. “But it doesn’t have to be you.”
The crowd was holding its breath as well as the night.
And Asher stood there, shaking, staring at the thing that felt like his truest self.
“You don’t have to fight me”, it said sweetly. “I can make sure no one ever laughs at you again. I can keep you safe.”
But then he saw Mira’s face looking so pale and trembling, but still there. Still looking at him like he was worth saving.
And so, slowly but painfully, Asher stepped back.
The figure shuddered, then began to shrink, folding inward until it was no more than a smear of darkness at his heels. Asher swayed, suddenly looking very young. “It’s still there,” he whispered.
“Yes.” Mira reached for his arm. “It always will be. But you can keep it small.”
He looked at the boy still on the ground, then at her. His face crumpled.
“I need help mom,” he whispered.
“We will get help,” Mira said, her voice firm, and for the first time in weeks, she felt her chest loosen up.
The next morning, the sun came slowly through the curtains.
Mira stood at the window, watching as Asher laced his shoes. His shoulders looked straighter, even though the faint outline of the shadow trailed him like a faithful dog.
But he was moving forward.
And for now, that was very much enough.
Thanks for reading me 💜