M
The Shadow Market was not a place you found; it was a place that found you, usually when you were desperate. Silas was desperate. He was a painter who had lost his sight in an accident.
He stood before the stall of the Shadow Broker. The Broker was a creature of smoke and silk, wearing a mask of porcelain.
"I want to see again," Silas said, his voice trembling.
"A simple request," the Broker purred. "But the price is steep. I do not take coin."
"I have nothing," Silas said. "No family, no land."
"You have a shadow," the Broker pointed a long, gloved finger at the floor. "It is a rich, deep shadow. Full of sorrow. I collect them."
"My shadow?" Silas laughed bitterly. "Take it. What use is a shadow to a blind man?"
The Broker produced a pair of silver scissors. Snip. Silas felt a cold chill, as if a layer of skin had been peeled away. His shadow detached from his heels and slithered into the Broker's sack.
Instantly, light flooded Silas's mind. He could see. The colors were vibrant, sharper than before. He wept with joy.
But as the weeks passed, Silas realized the true cost. Without a shadow, he felt... light. Too light. The wind threatened to blow him away. People didn't notice him. He would walk into a room, and no one would look up. He was becoming transparent, not just to light, but to the world.
He painted masterpieces, but no one saw them. They looked right through the canvas.
He returned to the alley where the market had been. "Give it back!" he screamed into the empty air. "I'd rather be blind and real than seeing and a ghost!"
But the market was gone. Silas looked down at his feet. The pavement was bright, unbroken by any darkness. He was a man of light now, and he had never felt so alone.