The clock says 5:47.
Zefar stares at the Brennan file. Insurance fraud. Witness statements. Photos of a dented bumper. His eyes are starting to cross.
Thirteen more minutes.
He's already planning it. Coffee from the good place on Fifth. Maybe walk home instead of taking the bus. Let the cold air wake him up properly.
Someone pounds on his door.
Not a knock. A pound. Desperate and too loud.
Zefar looks up. Through the frosted glass he sees a silhouette. Woman. Swaying slightly.
"We're closed," he calls out.
"Please." Her voice cracks. "Please, I need help."
He sighs. Pushes back from his desk. The chair squeaks.
When he opens the door, she nearly falls through it.
Woman in her thirties. Brown hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. October outside and she's sweating. Her hands reach for the doorframe like she'll collapse without it.
"You okay?" Zefar asks.
"He won't stop watching me."
Something in her voice makes him step aside. "Come in."
His office is small. Files everywhere. Dead plant on the windowsill courtesy of his sister who swears he needs "life" in here. One client chair that wobbles.
She takes it. Sits on the edge like she might bolt.
"Your name?" Zefar leans against his desk.
"Claire Hastings."
"I'm Zefar Folklore. Private investigator, obviously." He gestures at the cluttered space. "Tell me what happened."
Her jaw works. "Three days ago. I saw him three days ago."
"Where?"
"Outside my apartment. Across the street. Just standing there. Staring."
Zefar pulls his notepad closer. "What's he look like?"
Claire's hands clench in her lap. "That's the problem. He looks... normal. Jeans. Jacket. Regular face. But something's wrong with him."
"Wrong how?"
"His proportions." She swallows hard. "They're off. Like someone built a person but got the measurements wrong. His arms hang too low. Or his head's too small. I can't tell but it's wrong."
Zefar writes that down. Could be a perception thing. Stress does weird things to people.
"What happened after you saw him?"
"He followed me. I never saw him move but everywhere I went, there he was. Grocery store. My office. The coffee shop. Always just... watching."
"You try taking a picture?"
"He doesn't show up in photos." Her voice breaks. "I tried showing my coworker. She looked right where he was standing and said nobody was there."
The radiator hisses in the corner. Outside, a car alarm goes off.
"Nobody else can see him?" Zefar asks carefully.
"No. Just me." Claire looks at him with exhausted, red-rimmed eyes. "This morning he was outside my window. Second floor window. Just standing in the air. And tonight when I got off the bus, he was right in front of me. People walked around him like he wasn't even there."
Zefar sets down his pen. This is when he should smile politely. Recommend a good therapist. Show her the door.
But something stops him.
Maybe it's how steady her voice is despite the fear. Maybe it's the way her hands shake but her eyes stay locked on his. She doesn't sound crazy. She sounds terrified.
"Is he here now?" Zefar asks.
Claire's gaze slides past him to the window behind his desk.
Her face goes white.
"Yes."
Zefar turns. Looks at the street below. Empty sidewalk. Streetlights buzzing on. Parked cars. Nothing else.
"He's looking at you," Claire whispers. "Right at you."
Zefar stares at the empty street. His neck prickles anyway.
He turns back to her. "I can't see anything."
"I know." She sounds defeated. "Nobody can."
Zefar should walk away. He should tell her he handles infidelity cases and insurance fraud. Not hallucinations. Not whatever this is.
But he thinks about the Brennan file. About dented bumpers and lying spouses. About thirteen minutes until he can leave and grab coffee and pretend his work matters.
"Describe exactly where he is," Zefar says.
Claire blinks. "You believe me?"
"I didn't say that. Just describe it."
She looks back at the window. "He's on the sidewalk. Directly across the street. Under the broken streetlight. He's wearing the same jacket as yesterday. Gray. His hands are at his sides. He hasn't moved since I walked in."
Zefar watches her face. She's not looking around randomly. Her eyes are fixed on one specific point.
"How tall is he?"
"Six feet maybe. It's hard to tell because everything about him is wrong."
"His expression?"
"Blank. Like a mannequin. But his eyes..." She trails off.
"What about them?"
"They're looking at me. Always at me. Even when I'm behind walls."
Zefar picks up his phone. Opens the camera. Points it at the window.
"What are you doing?" Claire asks.
"Testing something." He snaps a photo. Looks at the screen.
Empty sidewalk. Broken streetlight. No gray jacket. No man.
He shows her. "This what you see in photos?"
She nods.
Zefar sets the phone down. Thinks. "You said this started three days ago. Anything happen before that? New medication? Stress at work? Hit your head?"
"Nothing." Claire's voice is firm. "I was fine. Normal. Then he was just... there."
"Family history of mental illness?"
"No."
"You tried talking to him?"
Claire's laugh is hollow. "Once. Yesterday. I yelled at him. Asked what he wanted. He didn't react. Just kept staring."
Zefar taps his pen against the notepad. Every rational part of his brain says this is a waste of time. Delusion. Break from reality. Not his problem.
But that prickle on his neck won't go away.
"Okay," he says. "Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to go outside. Walk to where you say he's standing. You tell me what happens."
"You'll help me?" Hope cracks through her voice.
"I'll look into it. That's all I'm promising."
Claire nods quickly. "Thank you. Thank you."
Zefar grabs his jacket from the hook. "Stay here. Watch the window. If anything changes, yell."
He heads for the door, then pauses. Looks back at her. "Claire. If this is some kind of setup..."
"It's not."
"Right." He doesn't know why he believes her. But he does.
The stairs creak under his feet. The building's old. Plumbing that groans. Lights that flicker. But it's cheap and it's his.
He pushes through the front door. October air hits him. Cold enough to see his breath.
The street is quiet. A few cars passing. Someone walking a dog a block down. Normal Thursday evening.
Zefar crosses the street. Stands under the broken streetlight exactly where Claire said.
Nothing happens.
He looks up at his office window. Sees Claire's pale face watching him. She's standing now. Pressed close to the glass.
He spreads his arms. See? Nothing here.
Claire's mouth opens. She's shouting something but he can't hear through the glass.
Then the cold changes.
It's not just October cold anymore. It's wrong. Deeper. Like it's coming from inside his chest instead of the air.
Zefar turns slowly.
The sidewalk is empty.
But the cold is getting worse.
He looks down at the concrete. His shadow stretches in front of him from the working streetlight behind. Normal shadow. Normal length.
Except.
There's another shadow. Right next to his. Just standing there.
Zefar's heart kicks hard against his ribs.
He doesn't see anyone. Doesn't hear anything. But the shadow is there. Arms too long. Head slightly too small.
He steps sideways.
The shadow doesn't move.
Claire is pounding on the window now. He can hear the muffled thuds even from across the street.
Zefar backs away. One step. Two. The shadow stays where it is.
He turns and walks back across the street. Not running. But close.
When he reaches his building, he looks back.
The shadow is gone.
Just his own, stretching normal behind him.
Zefar takes the stairs two at a time.
Claire meets him at the door. "Did you see him? Did you—"
"I saw something," Zefar says. His hands aren't quite steady. "Not him. But something."
"What?"
"His shadow." Zefar moves to the window. Looks out. Empty street again. "When I stood where you said he was. There was a shadow. But no person casting it."
Claire's face does something complicated. Relief and terror mixed together. "So I'm not crazy."
"I didn't say that." But Zefar's mind is racing. He's trying to logic his way through it. Light angle. Reflection. Something normal.
Except it wasn't normal.
That cold wasn't normal.
"Is he still there?" Zefar asks.
Claire looks out the window. Nods slowly. "Yes."
Zefar stares at the empty sidewalk. At the space where something invisible is standing. Something only Claire can see but that left a shadow he could see.
Something that shouldn't exist.
"Okay," he says quietly. "We need to figure out what this is."
"You believe me now."
"I believe something weird is happening. That's all I know."
Claire's shoulders drop. Like she's been holding them up for three days straight. "What do we do?"
Good question.
Zefar's handled cheating husbands. Skip traces. Insurance cases. Never handled something impossible.
But he thinks about that shadow. About the cold. About how his entire body wanted to run.
"First," he says, "you're going to tell me everything. Every detail. Every time you've seen him. Then we're going to my apartment."
"Your apartment?"
"You said he's been following you. If he can track you, your place isn't safe. Mine might buy us time to think."
"What if he follows us there?"
"Then at least I'll know I'm not hallucinating the shadow."
Claire looks at him. Really looks at him. "Why are you helping me? You don't know me. This is insane."
Zefar thinks about that. About the Brennan file on his desk. About coffee and bus rides and the same routine forever.
About standing in the cold and seeing something that shouldn't exist.
"Because," he says, "I don't think you're lying. And if you're not lying, then something's happening that nobody else knows about. Something that needs figuring out."
"That simple?"
"That simple."
It's not simple. It's terrifying. But Zefar's spent three years chasing unfaithful spouses and staged car accidents. He's forgotten what real mystery feels like.
This is real mystery. Real danger maybe.
And something in him that's been asleep wakes up.
"Come on," he says. "Start talking. Every detail."
Claire takes a shaky breath and begins.