Old Wounds

By Jzt

My nephew’s a quiet kid, always scribbling with crayons. At our family picnic, he handed me his latest masterpiece: Mom, Dad, me, him—all smiling in a sunny field. But behind me stood a tall, faceless figure in black, jaggedly drawn.

“Who’s that?”

I asked, forcing a laugh. He giggled, eyes wide, and said,

“The man who lives in your shadow. He said he’s your dad”

I brushed it off—kids say weird things and my dad passed years ago. That night, I woke to a silhouette at my bedside, towering and still. I screamed, and it vanished.

The next day, my nephew drew it again, closer to me. Last night, I felt a weight on my back as I walked home, like something clinging. I don’t cast a shadow anymore—not in sunlight, not under lamps. He’s not behind me now. He’s inside.

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