Sometimes, when the light first peeked through the blinds, the light would hit his bedside lamp and cast a shadow that looked vaguely like a dog on his wall.
This would only happen when rain was coming the very next day. He blinked, blearily, and breathed in, and out, savoring the feeling of having legs that could feel cotton wool. Then he sat up.
The dog shadow on his wall stirred, as well, and sat up, its ears up and its tail alert.
He smiled, and waved. The dog's shadow's mouth opened and closed, silently, as if it was barking. This warmed his heart more than the sunlight did.
Shuffling through his daily routine, he dragged his way through his kitchen. The early morning sunlight was more blue in his kitchen, from how often he cleaned his windows. "Kitchen windows are the most important to be clean!" his mother used to say. "A clean window means more things can see your food. That means more things would like you, and you should always make things like you."
She said that every time she swept small shadow rats out of the house. They squeaked, every time, indignant.
Her words have followed him to this day, he thought as he stumbled over the shadow dog's body in an effort not to step on it. He sat down in his chair and picked up the newspaper.
“NEW COLOR DISCOVERED,” read the headline. ‘“YOU CAN'T SEE IT, BUT IT'S THERE’ SCIENTISTS PROMISE."
The shadow dog propped its head up on the table.
His hand went down to scratch it's intangible fur, absentmindedly.
The dog made a silent, happy noise.
The Light of a Lamp
Taylor Andras