After eating, Lucia put away her tray without lingering in the cafeteria any longer than necessary and headed toward the training halls. Her footsteps sounded muted, dissolving into the space of the corridors, and soon the familiar order of rooms gave way to a more open, spacious area meant not for rest, but for movement.
She hadn't realized the existence of the shadow immediately.
At first, it was just a faint sensation—something elusive, as if she were being watched, but not from outside… from somewhere closer. She didn't pay it much attention, attributing it to fatigue or the aftermath of the trial. Then small inconsistencies began to appear: the shadow moved slightly differently than it should, lingered a fraction of a second longer than the light allowed, or, on the contrary, began moving earlier.
At first, she simply noticed.
Then she began to test it.
And then, one day, the shadow responded.
Not with words, not with any obvious action—but enough to leave no doubt.
Her shadow was alive.
Why this had happened, whether it was part of the trial or something connected to her lost memory, Lucia didn't know. And after a brief attempt to find an explanation, she decided it didn't matter.
She didn't have answers anyway.
"Let's just say you're a bonus," she had said back then, tilting her head slightly, as if addressing someone who could actually hear her.
The shadow hadn't replied.
Just like now.
But its silence no longer felt empty.
More… neutral.
Lucia entered the training hall and stopped in the center. The space was large enough not to restrict movement, yet stripped of unnecessary detail. Everything here served a single purpose—training.
She walked over to the weapon rack and, without hesitation, picked up a sword.
Her hand settled on the hilt with confidence.
Too much confidence for someone who remembered nothing.
Lucia paused for a moment, as if listening to that sensation, then stepped forward and took a stance.
She didn't know how she was supposed to stand.
Couldn't recall a single stance.
But her body had already decided for her.
Her weight distributed correctly.
Her shoulders relaxed.
Her fingers closed around the hilt just tightly enough to hold the sword without gripping it too hard.
She made her first movement.
Slowly.
Testing.
And it turned out… right.
Without stiffness.
Without mistakes.
As if it wasn't something new.
Lucia stopped, looking at her hands, the position of the blade, her own body moving as though it had never forgotten.
"…Ah, right," she said quietly, a faint, almost tired irony in her voice. "You remember."
She didn't specify who she was addressing—herself or her body.
Maybe it was the same thing.
Her body didn't fail her.
It moved precisely, without hesitation, as if executing a well-rehearsed sequence.
Lucia took a deep breath, letting the sensation settle, and then began to train.
At first, slowly.
Checking each movement.
Then faster.
Combinations began to form on their own, transitions grew smoother, steps more confident. Thoughts gradually receded into the background, giving way to the rhythm set by her body.
She didn't remember.
She simply… did.
And that was enough.
She kept moving.
At first cautiously, listening to each motion, then with increasing confidence, allowing her body to guide her forward. Her strikes became more precise, her steps softer, her breathing gradually evened out, aligning itself with the rhythm that emerged on its own. Thoughts faded into the background, dissolving at the edge of awareness, giving way to the pure sensation of movement.
Hours passed like this.
She didn't track time—here, that was difficult. The light didn't change, day didn't differ from evening, and evening from morning. The only marker was fatigue, slowly building in her body, forcing her to stop.
And then it would begin again.
The next day.
And the one after that.
Gradually, it became a rhythm.
Simple, clear, almost stable.
Lucia would wake up, go to the cafeteria, where the food still had no taste but provided her body with the necessary energy. Sometimes she cast brief glances at the other students, but almost never spoke to them. Not out of dislike—she simply didn't feel the need.
Then she returned to the training hall.
And picked up the sword again.
At first, her movements were focused, almost cautious, as if each time she was rechecking the limits of her abilities. But day by day, that feeling faded, replaced by a confidence that required no thought.
Her body learned faster than her mind.
Or perhaps… it simply remembered.
Sometimes she stopped in the middle of training, trying to grasp that feeling—the moment when movement happened on its own, without thought. In those moments, it seemed to her that if she concentrated enough, she might recover not only the skill, but everything else.
But the moment she tried…
Everything vanished.
And only that same emptiness remained.
In the evenings, she returned to her room, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling, letting her thoughts drift freely without trying to hold onto them. Sometimes she spoke to the shadow—briefly, almost jokingly, as if it were something natural.
"So," she would say without turning her head, "no revelations today either?"
The shadow usually didn't respond.
Sometimes it moved.
Sometimes it remained still.
But its presence gradually stopped feeling strange.
More… familiar.
At times like that, Lucia caught herself thinking that perhaps this was the only constant she had.
And that made her feel a little calmer.
Sometimes, before sleep, she tried to remember again.
Closed her eyes.
Focused.
Searched for anything—a fragment, a sound, a sensation.
Sometimes it felt like she was close.
That something concrete was about to appear.
But each time, the feeling slipped away.
Leaving nothing behind.
And yet there was no despair in it.
No panic.
More a quiet acceptance.
As if part of her had already decided that this was how it should be.
That was how the first week passed.
Almost unnoticed.
Then the second.
The rhythm settled, became natural, almost comfortable. Training no longer required effort, conversations with the shadow became slightly more frequent—though no more meaningful—and attempts to remember became a habitual part of the day, like eating or resting.
Sometimes she began to notice others.
Some came to the hall, some disappeared, some trained nearby but kept their distance. She didn't seek contact, but didn't consciously avoid it either—she simply remained within her own rhythm.
By the third week, time had completely stopped feeling linear.
Days didn't differ from one another.
They weren't long or short—they simply… repeated.
Training.
Occasional, brief conversations with the shadow.
Attempts to remember anything at all.
Without noticeable progress.
But also without the feeling of being stuck.
She wasn't standing still.
She was moving forward.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly even to herself, without a clear understanding of where this path would lead—but still forward. There was no certainty of outcome, no goal she could put into words, but there was something else—a quiet, steady sense that stopping would be a mistake.
And for some reason, that was enough.
Over time, the days stopped feeling like separate segments. They didn't end or begin anew—they flowed into one another, like movements during training. And on one such day, almost indistinguishable from the rest, Lucia found herself in the hall again.
That day, she stayed longer than usual.
At first, as always. A few test movements, a light warm-up to "wake" her body, to remind her muscles what was expected. She didn't rush, allowing herself to ease into the rhythm gradually, without pressure.
But within a few minutes, something changed.
Her movements became smoother.
Cleaner.
As if the layer between intention and action had disappeared.
The blade moved without hesitation, tracing precise, calculated lines. Her steps fell softly, almost silently, and each transition emerged naturally, without the need to think ahead.
Lucia didn't try to control the process.
She simply… let it happen.
Her breathing deepened, becoming steady, aligning with the rhythm of movement. With each step, each strike, her body felt lighter, as if shedding something unnecessary.
Her thoughts, as before, began to retreat.
At first—slightly to the side.
Then further.
Until they remained somewhere at the edge of perception, barely interfering.
Only sensation remained.
The space around her.
The weight of the sword in her hand.
The faint tension in her muscles.
And movement.
Continuous, fluid, almost calm.
Lucia no longer tracked the sequence of actions.
She didn't think about whether she was doing things right or wrong.
Her body knew.
And that was enough.
Sometimes it felt like if she stopped at that moment and tried to analyze what was happening, everything would disappear—as it had before. So she didn't stop.
One movement followed another.
Step—turn.
Strike—transition.
And in that repetition, there was no boredom.
More… stability.
As if here, in this rhythm, she was closest to herself.
To the version of herself she didn't remember, but still carried within.
And perhaps that was why, on that day, she didn't stop in time.
The blade traced another arc and stopped exactly where it should.
Lucia froze for a moment, then smoothly shifted to the side, beginning a new sequence.
And that was when she noticed it.
At first—from the corner of her eye.
Something didn't match.
Not in the movement.
In the shadow.
She didn't stop immediately, continuing the sequence, but her attention had already shifted. Her gaze flicked downward for a fraction of a second—to where overlapping silhouettes lay beneath her feet: her own, and another—elongated, round.
The shadow of a ball.
The ball itself lay off to the side, motionless, left by someone near the wall.
But its shadow… was moving.
Lucia finished the movement and slowly straightened, not taking her eyes off the floor.
The shadow of the ball twitched slightly.
Then shifted a few centimeters.
Not because of light.
Not because of the object moving.
The ball itself hadn't budged.
She narrowed her eyes slightly.
"…Seriously?" she said quietly, almost under her breath.
At that moment, her own shadow stretched slightly to the side.
Very carefully.
Almost imperceptibly.
If she hadn't been looking directly at it, she wouldn't have noticed.
Lucia's shadow "touched" the ball's shadow.
And it… reacted.
The round silhouette bounced slightly.
As if it weren't just a flat imprint of light, but something with weight, with form.
Lucia slowly lowered the sword.
She stood still, watching.
The shadow pushed the circle again.
It rolled across the floor—not the ball itself, but its shadow, sliding along the surface, detached from the object that cast it.
The ball remained in place.
Lucia blinked.
"…No, wait," she muttered, tilting her head slightly. "That's not how this works."
But apparently, it was.
The shadow of the ball moved again, as if gently kicked.
And this time, Lucia's shadow followed it, as if… playing.
For a few seconds, Lucia simply watched.
Then she exhaled slowly.
"You're… playing with a shadow?" There was a hint of amusement in her voice.
Of course, there was no answer.
But the shadow of the ball twitched again.
A little faster.
As if there was a response.
Lucia planted the sword tip on the floor and leaned on it, continuing to watch.
"The actual ball doesn't interest you, huh?" she added thoughtfully. "Too… material?"
At that moment, Lucia's shadow kicked the circle a bit harder.
The ball's shadow rolled further, stretched for a fraction of a second—and snapped back into shape.
Lucia let out a quiet chuckle.
"I see. You've got standards."
She glanced at the real ball for a moment, then back at its shadow.
"I'm not even sure whether to be jealous or concerned."
The shadow kept "playing."
The movements were simple, almost childlike—push, catch up, push again. There was no goal, no meaning.
Just action.
Lucia watched a little longer, then shook her head and took the sword back into a normal grip.
"Alright, play," she said calmly. "Just don't get carried away."
She returned to training.
The blade moved again, slicing quietly through the air, her steps falling back into their familiar rhythm.
But now, from time to time, her gaze still drifted downward—to where her shadow continued living its quiet, strange life.
It moved with her, repeating her silhouette, but sometimes—almost imperceptibly—did something of its own. And most often, that "something" came down to simple, almost childish things.
To play.
The shadow of the ball slid across the floor, detached from the ball itself, and Lucia's shadow followed it, gently pushing, catching up, retreating again. There was no goal, no meaning in these movements, but there was a lightness to them that unexpectedly caught the eye.
Lucia noticed it more and more often.
At first—as something strange.
Then—as a fact.
And eventually—as something… familiar.
And, strangely enough, it almost stopped feeling unusual. Her world already had enough things that defied explanation, and one living shadow no longer stood out.
With that thought, she continued training, letting her body move and her attention drift freely between the motion and what was happening at her feet.
And in the evening, when fatigue finally took over, she returned to her room.
The door closed quietly behind her, cutting her off from the corridors and the training hall, and the familiar silence settled around her once again. Lucia didn't turn on anything extra, didn't change the lighting—everything remained as it was.
She walked inside slowly, took off her uniform, and without thinking dropped onto the bed, allowing her body to relax.
The springs responded softly under her weight.
Lucia folded her hands behind her head and stared at the ceiling with the expression of someone looking at something that had already become tiresome, yet remained the only available thing to look at.
The light from the lamps was just as even, unchanging, as if time didn't exist here—or simply didn't matter. There were no soft transitions, no hint of evening or night—only constancy.
Over the past weeks, the ceiling had become almost familiar.
So much so that her gaze began to find nonexistent details on it—lines, faint variations in texture that might not have even been there.
Lucia narrowed her eyes slightly, studying it as if at some point it might suddenly change and reveal something new.
But, of course, nothing happened.
She exhaled softly.
Her body gradually released the tension from training, her muscles filling with a pleasant heaviness, and in that sensation there was a simple, understandable satisfaction.
Her thoughts were in no hurry to return.
And that was… convenient.
"Hey," she said lazily, not even turning her head. "I've accepted a lot already… but there's still one question that's bothering me."
She squinted slightly, still looking upward.
"How do you even crawl on the ceiling?"
At that moment, the shadow was indeed there.
Spread across the surface, it didn't simply mirror Lucia's shape—it occupied its own position, as if the ceiling were as natural a surface for it as the floor.
The shadow "looked" down.
The movement was subtle, but familiar enough for Lucia to understand she had been heard.
Then the shadow raised a hand.
And pointed at the wall.
Lucia slowly turned her head, following the gesture, then looked back at the ceiling.
"Along the wall?.." she repeated, raising an eyebrow slightly. "Well, yeah. Of course. The most obvious option. How did I not figure that out right away?"
She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand and continuing to watch.
"And back?"
The shadow didn't explain.
It simply began to move.
Calmly, without abrupt motion, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, its silhouette separated from the ceiling and flowed down the wall. It didn't fall, didn't slide—it flowed, as if gravity and boundaries didn't exist for it.
Lucia watched closely, not taking her eyes off it.
The shadow reached the floor and returned to its usual place, becoming almost unnoticeable again.
For a few seconds, Lucia said nothing.
Then she exhaled slowly.
"I see," she said in the tone people use when accepting something completely unexplainable. "Of course. Why not."
She rolled onto her back again and stared at the ceiling.
"Perfectly logical," she added more quietly. "Wall, ceiling… next stop—walking on air?"
The shadow, as expected, didn't respond.
Lucia smiled faintly.
"You could at least explain things sometimes," she continued, turning her head slightly. "I get it, mysterious vibe and all… but once in a while, you could try being a bit more human."
A pause.
"Although yeah," she let out a quiet chuckle. "'Human' probably doesn't apply to you."
The shadow remained beside her.
Quiet.
Calm.
And despite the lack of words, its presence no longer carried that strange detachment. If anything, there was something steady in that silence. Almost reliable.
Lucia looked back at the ceiling and stretched slightly, settling in more comfortably.
"You know…" she said after a few seconds, "if someone saw this, they'd definitely send me somewhere far away."
She paused for a moment.
"And not necessarily in a bad way," she added with a hint of amusement. "Maybe they'd just decide I need… special attention."
The shadow didn't react.
Lucia let out a soft huff.
"Though honestly…" she closed her eyes slightly, "I'd probably think the same in their place."
Another short pause.
"A girl with no memory, talking to her own shadow, feeding it meat…" she snorted quietly. "Great combination."
Her shoulders relaxed just a little.
"I just hope you don't start talking out loud," she added almost in a whisper. "That would be too much."
The shadow remained the same.
As always.
Lucia lay there a little longer, staring at the ceiling, then exhaled softly.
"Although…" she said more calmly now, without irony, "I guess I don't really care anymore."
It didn't sound like indifference.
More like acceptance.
She closed her eyes.
The room was quiet, and that silence no longer felt чужой—foreign. It didn't press in, didn't interfere, didn't create the urge to fill it with something else.
Outside, beyond the glass, the storm still raged, tearing the sky with flashes of lightning—but here, it couldn't be heard.
And inside…
Inside, it was slowly becoming a little less empty.
And somehow, that felt… right.