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The morning was still young, the world smelled of damp moss and swollen stones. Waldemar trudged through the grass that reached up to his boots and looked at the drops hanging from each blade like tiny glass balls. The sun played in them, reflecting the sky, the trees, his red hat—but in one drop, he saw something that didn't belong to him: a shadow that moved even though it was standing still. He blinked, tilted his head, and the shadow did the same, only a heartbeat too late. "That's new," he murmured, carefully picking up the drop with his finger and placing it on the edge of his backpack. The drop remained as if of its own volition. Waldemar marched on, but soon he noticed that the shadow had detached itself from the drop. He saw it now on the ground, next to his own print: two pairs of paws in the dew. The second shadow moved sluggishly, almost hesitantly, as if still practicing being real. Waldemar sat down on the bank of the stream, pulled out a piece of bread, and shared it. The strange shadow did the same, without bread, only in movement. "If you're hungry, you must learn to talk," Waldemar said kindly. The echo came over the water on the wind, a barely audible whisper. He understood only one word: Lost. Waldemar nodded. "Then we'll look for you." He stood up, the shadow following him—always slightly offset, as if he didn't know how close proximity should be. Over the course of the morning, Waldemar noticed that the shadow not only followed him, but also pointed him in the right direction: at every fork, it became darker on the right path and paler on the wrong one. Thus, Waldemar found an old wayside cross made of fallen branches, in the center of which hung a drop, larger than all the others, and within it a bluish light that pulsed softly. He bent down, and the shadow settled directly over him, as if to protect him. Waldemar saw images in the drop: a figure made of smoke, wandering through the woods, searching and alone. "Is that you?" he asked. The shadow nodded in his language—a tremor on the ground was enough for a yes. "Then you belong to someone," Waldemar said thoughtfully, "and I'm supposed to bring you back." He wondered who might have lost their shadow in the forest. Perhaps an animal born in the fog. Perhaps a person who forgot something. Perhaps... himself, on a day when he walked too fast. In the afternoon, a cool wind blew up. The shadow became restless, stretched, shimmered. Waldemar stood on a stone, looked up at the sky, and there, in a narrow strip of sunlight, another drop floated, as if on an invisible thread. The entire landscape was reflected in it—only Waldemar was missing. The shadow, however, was clearly visible in it. "So you don't belong to me," he said quietly, "you are what I leave behind when I move on." The shadow lifted, detached itself from the ground, and slid into the drop. For a moment, Waldemar saw himself standing there, smaller, calmer, freer.