The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting long shadows across the parking lot as I stood there, reeling from the strange events. The toddler, still clutching my hand with a grip surprisingly firm for someone so small, sniffled and rubbed his eyes. The mall cop, equally perplexed, scratched his head.
“Did you see that?” he asked, his voice barely concealing his disbelief. I nodded, unable to tear my eyes away from the screen, where the image looped ominously. Each cycle replayed the same inexplicable scene: the child’s shadow, distinct and undeniable, clasping the hand of an invisible figure.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I murmured, glancing down at the child. His tear-streaked face was calmer now, but his eyes held an unfathomable depth, as though he understood far more than he let on.
“Let’s retrace our steps,” the mall cop suggested, his voice taking on an authoritative edge as he tried to regain control of the situation. Together, we guided the boy back toward the theater. The evening air was cooling rapidly, and I noticed the goosebumps rising on his arms.
As we approached the theater lobby, I crouched down to his level again. “Can you tell me more about your ‘other dad’?” I asked softly, hoping to coax more information from him. “The one who doesn’t talk with his mouth?”
The boy thought for a moment, then nodded. “He talks in my head,” he explained, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
“What does he say?” I pressed, my curiosity piqued.
“He says to wait,” the child replied, looking up at me with wide, earnest eyes. “He says someone will come.”
A shiver ran down my spine, though I couldn’t quite pinpoint why. I straightened up, my mind racing with possibilities. Was this some elaborate prank? A figment of the child’s imagination? Or something else entirely?
Back inside the theater, the manager joined us, a concerned expression on her face. “We’ve checked all the theaters and public areas,” she said. “No one’s reported a missing child fitting his description.”
I thanked her, though it did little to ease the growing knot of anxiety in my stomach. The mall cop suggested calling the police, and I nodded, knowing it was the logical next step. Yet, there was a part of me—a part that I couldn’t quite silence—that whispered something else was at play.
While we waited, I kept the boy close, trying to distract him with small talk. He told me his name was Oliver, and that he liked dinosaurs and spaghetti. As we spoke, a peculiar warmth began to spread through my chest, a protective instinct I couldn’t quite explain.
When the police arrived, they took statements and reviewed the footage with incredulous eyes. I could see the same questions flickering through their minds, the same confusion mirrored in their furrowed brows.
As they led Oliver away, promising to find out where he belonged, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just been part of something far beyond my understanding. The boy glanced back at me, his small hand waving a farewell.
“Thanks for waiting with me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
And just like that, he was gone, leaving behind nothing but questions and a chilling image—of a shadow holding a hand that wasn’t there.
