The Hemming of a Heavy Shadow

Fiction

Stand still, Mr. Henderson. You're drifting. The shadow was a mess. It didn't just follow him; it lagged. It looked like a wet wool blanket dragged through charcoal, pooling around his boots in thick, ink-black folds that resisted the light. "I feel a deep sense of existential burden," Henderson said, his voice airy and distant. I didn't care about the burden. I cared about the drag. I knelt down, the floorboards creaking under my weight, and gripped the edge of the shadow. It was cold, dense, and had the texture of heavy velvet that had been soaked in oil. It was a common enough problem for people who spent too much time in the low-light districts; their silhouettes simply lost their tension and started to sag. "It's just an overgrowth," I told him. "You've let the edges fray. If you keep walking around like this, you'll start tripping over your own history." I pulled out the measuring tape. The steel tip clicked against the floor. I measured from the heel to the trailing edge. It was three feet too long. It was a tripping hazard, plain and simple. I marked the line with a piece of white tailor's chalk. The chalk didn't sit on top of the shadow; it sank in, leaving a pale, ghostly streak in the darkness. I pinned the excess fabric back with heavy iron pins. The shadow fought me, pulling toward the corners of the room as if it wanted to merge with the skirting boards, but I pinned it tight. "Will it hurt?" Henderson asked. "Only if you move. Stop fidgeting." I took the shears. These weren't sewing scissors. They were heavy, industrial blades forged for cutting through thick leather or reinforced rubber. I positioned the blade at the chalk line and squeezed. The cut made a sound like tearing silk, though it was deeper, more visceral. A thick, viscous sludge leaked from the severed edge for a second before it snapped shut, sealing itself into a clean, blunt line. The weight shifted instantly. Henderson gasped, his shoulders squaring as the drag disappeared. "There. Now we just need to hem the edge so it doesn't fray again." I threaded the needle with a strand of silver-grey wire, the kind that holds its shape even under metaphysical stress. I worked quickly, stitching a tight, invisible lockstitch along the perimeter. I didn't do fancy patterns. I did a functional seam. It's the only thing that keeps a shadow from unraveling when the client starts stressing out again. I snipped the thread and told him to step off the pedestal. "I feel lighter," he whispered, looking down at his neatly trimmed silhouette. "You're not lighter," I said, wiping the shears with a grease-stained rag. "You're just the right size. That'll be forty dollars."