You must be very still when she passes by.
Is she the one?
No, she is another traveller.
Not dark, like him?
No, she soaks in the light and it becomes color, not a blinding reflection. You must not speak to her. This is not her tale.
She saw that the shadows seemed to cling to him reluctantly, as if they were prisoners chained together, neither wishing to be present nor able to flee. Which of the shadows was him in the flesh, she could not be certain. And as she thought of it, her mind seemed always to settle on a different point, some irrelevant matter not related to his presence. What an interesting surface on that wall there as the shadows move away from it. How the sun shines on that patch of grass where something had been. But . . . and there was nothing there. What she had seen could not be remembered.
To some he looks like a man passing through the country, limping, with one arm, and suffering from some terrible wound. To others he seems to be haunting the townships, swathed in shadows, the edges of his garments never quite beginning or ending. No one is quite sure where they have seen him. His features are uncertain. Nevertheless, they seem to understand that it is him.
Life is an exercise in deciding how best to die.