The government’s latest attempt at order was a census of shadows. Officials claimed they needed accurate counts for infrastructure planning, psychological health metrics, and shadow-based taxation that would replace property taxes. Citizens laughed until forms arrived: “Please stand in sunlight at noon. Trace your shadow. Submit measurements and density.” Failure to comply meant fines. Some complied, chalk outlines appearing on sidewalks like crime scenes. Others protested, arguing a shadow was private.
Mara, a mid-level clerk at the Bureau of Nonphysical Assets, processed forms all day. She saw patterns. Shadows submitted by marginalized neighborhoods were lighter, frayed at edges, as if thinning. Wealthy districts sent crisp outlines, elongated by tall buildings. Anomalies piled up: forms with no shadows, shadows with extra limbs, shadows that moved opposite to their owners. Mara flagged them. Her supervisor told her to stop making trouble. “We count; we do not question.”
One evening, while walking home, Mara noticed her own shadow lagging. When she stopped, it continued a few steps, then snapped back. She felt a tug in her chest. She looked around. Other shadows seemed restless. A child’s shadow played hopscotch while the child stared at a phone. A dog’s shadow refused to follow when its owner pulled the leash. The census had unsettled them.
Rumors spread: shadow registrars visiting homes at night, weighing curtains to ensure no hidden shadows. A black market emerged selling “shadow thickening tonics.” Influencers posted photos of their “luxury shadows,” darker and longer than average. Shadow-shaming began. Mara grew angry. Shadows were supposed to be unnoticed companions, not commodities.
She met secretly with other clerks. They compared data. The anomalies clustered in areas with strict surveillance. Places where people felt watched had shadows that wandered, seeking privacy. A theory formed: shadows mirrored autonomy. Measure them too much, and they rebelled. Mara wrote a memo, careful and data-heavy, arguing that the census was harming public well-being. It was buried.
On census day, enforcement increased. Drones projected light onto streets, forcing shadows into view. Mara watched from her office as her shadow flickered under artificial glare. She made a choice. She walked to the main server room, badge trembling, and initiated a “test” that corrupted shadow files, deleting measurements. Alarms blared. Her supervisor rushed in. Mara confessed. “You can’t own what moves when we do and stops when we stop. Counting changed them.”
She was escorted out. Outside, people noticed their shadow forms glitching on government apps. A wave of relief swept some; others panicked without their shadow scores. Activists seized the moment, staging “shadow sit-ins”: people gathered at noon, letting their shadows mingle into one dark mass, untraceable. Artists painted murals of unmeasured silhouettes. Scientists published papers on shadow independence. The government backtracked, citing “technical issues,” suspending the census.
Mara lost her job. She found work at a community center teaching kids about light and bodies. She taught them to play with shadows, to make puppets on walls, to appreciate the comfort of a shape that follows but also has its own agenda. Years later, the Bureau quietly released a report: shadow census inconclusive, not recommended. Shadows returned to being unnoticed, except when sunlight made them long and playful.
Mara’s own shadow sometimes still lagged, especially when she felt caged. She took that as a sign to change course. She kept her badge on a shelf as a reminder that some things slip away when you try too hard to pin them down. On a bright afternoon, she stood with neighbors, letting their shadows pool, a census of togetherness that required no forms.