The bench was soaked through with that mean, clinging dew. The cold didn't just touch the man—it crawled inside the wood and straight into his bones through muscles, sharp enough to be noticed, not sharp enough to make him get up. So, he stayed. Stillness is the oldest, cheapest disguise there is when you don't want eyes on you.
The fog was thick, but he didn't notice it at first—he only realised his hands were wet when he touched the bench, the kind that doesn't drift so much as squat on everything. The path ahead disappeared after maybe five meters or 6, just grey soup.
Sounds came wrong too—footsteps seemed to arrive before the feet made them, like echoes running ahead or behind their owners.
He was holding a letter. Folded, stiff, heavy, like it knew what it carried. Even through the gloves, the paper felt official, smelled official, final, slightly obscene in its neatness. His name on the front was written with surgical care—Jel—no tremor, no extra flick of ink. That kind of perfection made his stomach turn and his body stiff. He read the letterhead again, slowly, like maybe the words would get tired of being true and turn false.
Institute for Radiance Pathology and Cognitive Defence.
He traced the letters once, twice, with eyes that felt swollen. Acceptance. Conditional. Mandatory observation period. His thumb worried the corner until the paper made a small, complaining sound and bent. He pulled in a breath—careful, measured—and watched the white plume of it disappear into the bigger grey. Just winter, he told himself, not sure. Cold air likes to pretend it's a ghost, and ghosts aren't real, then the letter twitched. Not a flutter. A real, sudden jerk, like something inside it had startled. Jel's hands were still.
The paper shook again—once, hard—then went limp. Air did it this time. He stared at it as it might bite. Nerves, probably. Or the body finally saying what the mind wouldn't. He folded it with stupid gentleness, shoved it deep into the coat pocket, flattened his palm over it like he could nail the future down that way. When he stood, the bench complained under him—a small, dry creek. And for half a second, the whole world seemed to stutter only for him. It wasn't long. Just a hiccup in time, then coughing. But everything felt wrong during it. His legs straightened before he ordered them to. Gravity roared, then remembered its job.
Jel ended up standing, empty, waiting for the rest of himself to arrive. The fog felt closer now. Or maybe he was the one leaning towards it. One step. Then the world died. Not darkness—something emptier. Light didn't fade; it was cancelled. Depth collapsed. Up and down forgot which was which. Inside his chest, something tore— not muscle, but the shape of who he was. His knees hit stone, hard.
The pain arrived late, like a phone call from another state. Wet grit chewed through his loose trousers. He flung a handout to catch himself, and fingers sank into cold muck. Then his head was pulled up. Not by him. The cords in his neck stretched, dragged by something invisible. He looked. His shadow was standing maybe ten paces away. Not lying flat. Not following like usual. Standing. Too tall—eleven feet, twelve maybe. Same outline as him, but cleaner. Very clean. Like a silhouette cut from black metal and propped upright.
It didn't move, maybe it did.
Fog passed straight through it, parted and rejoined like it was nothing. The edges weren't soft—they were not finished, as though whoever drew it had gotten bored halfway. It watched with its white eyes. Still watched. His breathing turned into something ugly—short, ripping gasps that hurt coming in and hurt worse going out. Heart slamming so fast the beats smeared together into one long buzz.
Hands shaking so badly the fingers wanted to curl inside and hide. He knew the diagnosis. He'd read the pamphlets, the warning posters, the hushed case reports. He knew the approved sequence: name the fear, rate the fear, breathe against the fear, wait for the fear to get bored. All of it is useless. Terror hit him. No, maybe panic. Or was it just the cold? He wasn't sure—but he ran anyway. Not the slow-building kind—this was immediate, animal, the kind that doesn't negotiate. He scrambled up. Legs worked quite fast, too eager. With no plan, no direction. Just away. Standing still = dead. Being seen = worse than dead.
He ran. He turned left, but the bench was suddenly behind him. Had he run in a circle? Only his own breathing crashing in his ears and the slap of shoes on slick stone. Run until lungs burn like swallowed fire, until the mind collapses into one single, stupid word: run, run damn it, run go go go don't stop don't look. Break the body, but don't stop running. Tears fell; he started coughing, crying, and shaming. Somewhere behind him, in the soft grey silence, something stayed perfectly still. And smiled.