The man who sold shadows

 



Experimental Short Story Series #46
Title: The Man Who Sold Shadows
By Faraz Parvez (Pen name of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal, Former Faculty, Umm Al Qura University, Makkah, KSA)


In the ash-hued alleys of Noorabad—a city where lanterns never flickered, but shadows danced even at noon—there existed a trade no one spoke of openly. Not gold, not gems, not secrets.

Shadows.

They were currency among the elite. A senator’s shadow could buy an entire district. A poet’s silhouette was rumored to grant dreams. The bigger, darker, and older your shadow, the more powerful your place in the city’s invisible hierarchy.

And so, under a cracked dome of sky, among beggars with broken sandals and hollow eyes, lived a man named Basit. No surname. No past. Only a shadow that clung to him like regret—long, unruly, and darker than midnight ink.

One day, a man in a sapphire coat and shoes stitched from raven feathers approached him.

"That’s a rare shadow," the man said. "How much?"

Basit blinked. “You can’t buy a soul.”

"It’s not your soul I want. Just your shadow."

And so, desperate to escape the hunger gnawing at his bones, Basit agreed. The man whispered a contract in a language of moths and mirrors. Basit signed.

By sunset, his shadow was gone.

At first, everything changed. Doors opened. Coins multiplied. Women smiled. He walked into banks with nothing and walked out with accounts. Clothes shimmered. Servants bowed. He had a home with no cracks, a name on marble, and a voice people listened to.

But with time, he noticed the light followed him strangely. Mirrors showed his body, but not his weight. Children cried when he passed. Dogs growled. Rooms felt colder when he entered. And worse… he started hearing whispers.

They came at night. Soft, sibilant sounds. A scratching under the bed. Breaths behind closed doors. Then, shadows that didn’t match anything in the room.

One night, he awoke to find his reflection gone from the mirror.

Another, he found writing on his walls: “You are me. I am you. I remember.”

Then came the dreams. Burning cities. Faces he never met, weeping. His own voice, screaming. The shadow, it seemed, hadn’t forgotten being sold.

On the last night anyone saw Basit, a beggar spotted him in the old district, weeping barefoot in the rain. He clutched at the ground as if trying to pin down something invisible.

The next day, all that remained was a dark stain on the cobblestones. Some say it was oil. Some say ink.

But the oldest of beggars whispered:
"That was no stain. That was a shadow reclaiming its man."


Why We Tell These Stories
This 46th entry in our Experimental Short Story Series continues to explore the magical, the mysterious, and the metaphysical. In Basit’s world, shadows aren’t just silhouettes—they’re memory, guilt, and identity. The question lingers: What would you trade for success? And would that bargain remember you?

As we march toward the 60th tale in this series, we invite you to keep exploring with us. Each story is a world. Each world, a mirror. And each mirror, a door.

Thank you for walking through this one with us.

Read, Reflect, Return.
Tomorrow, another shadow may speak. Will you listen?

farazparvez1.blogspot.com
—The surreal lives here.



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