Blæc Sunne

Blæc Sunne

People said the eclipse would be partial. Nothing dramatic. Nothing like the total ones he had seen on television, viewed from foreign deserts or mountaintops. There would just be a dimming. A bite taken out of the sun. Enough to make the morning feel strange, perhaps. But not enough to stop him going about his day.

Still, by eight o’clock, the town felt wrong.

It wasn’t the weather. The forecast had promised a clear sky, which it had actually delivered. A pale, rinsed expanse of blue stretching over the rooftops. The kind of sky that made him think of washing lines and the smell of soap powder. The air had an early spring freshness. The kind that made his breath feel cool between his teeth. He walked to work with his shoulders hunched, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and his eyes narrowed against the brightness.

Beneath it all, something was off. A subtle pressure building, like the air before a storm.

Tom noticed it first while unlocking the side door of the community hall. He virtually ran the place. Took the bookings, made the repairs and prepared the endless rota of classes and clubs. He liked the quiet before everyone arrived. But today, the quiet felt too quiet. There was almost no birdsong. No distant hum of traffic. Just a stillness that made him pause with the key halfway inserted in the lock.

He turned and scanned the empty car park, its border of privet hedges and the row of terraced houses beyond. Nothing unusual in sight. No movement. No sound.

He shook off the feeling, opened the door and stepped inside.

The hall smelled of floor polish and stewed tea. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, capturing dust motes in slow suspension. He flicked on the lights, though they weren’t really necessary, then crossed the wooden floor to unstack some chairs that were leaning against the wall.

At 8:15, the first group arrived. The Thursday morning yoga class. Mostly retired women, who tended to be relentlessly cheerful. They came in chatting about the eclipse, about whether they’d remembered their special glasses, about how the news had said not to look directly at it.

“Do you think it’ll go dark?” asked Margaret, the oldest of them, her white hair pinned back neatly to frame her handsome features.

“Not properly dark,” Tom said. “Just dim.”

She nodded, though she looked unconvinced. “It feels a bit strange already.”

He didn’t disagree.

By 9.00, the class was fully underway. Soft music played from a boombox that had somehow survived from the 1980s. The women’s bodies stretched and folded, almost in time with the slow rhythm.

Tom sat at the reception desk, sorting through invoices, though he kept glancing at the windows. The light had begun to shift. Not dimmer yet, but flatter, as if someone had turned down the contrast.

At 9:27, the birds stopped abruptly. He noticed because he’d been listening to them, half-consciously aware of their tentative chatter in the trees outside. But suddenly there was nothing. Not a single chirp. The silence pressed against the glass.

He stood and walked to the nearest window to look outside.

The sky was still blue. The sun still bright. But the hues of the parked cars, the hedges and the brickwork all seemed muted, as if limned with a translucent wash of watercolour.

He checked his watch. The eclipse wasn’t due to begin for another ten minutes.

Behind him, the yoga instructor said, “Everyone, pause for a moment. Does anyone else feel that?”

The class froze in mid-pose. Almost in unison, they lifted their heads and turned their gaze toward the windows.

“It’s like the air’s gone heavy,” someone murmured.

Tom stepped back from the glass. “Maybe it’s just anticipation.” But he didn’t believe that.

At 9:38, the leading edge of shadow touched the sun. It was small and barely noticeable. Tom only saw it in the way the light changed, thinning and losing its warmth. The hall’s overhead lights flickered once, then steadied.

The yoga class finished early. People gathered their mats and bags, speaking in low voices as they glanced repeatedly at the windows.

“I don’t like it,” Margaret said to Tom as she left. “It feels… wrong.”

He tried to smile. “It’s just nature.”

She shook her head. “No. Nature feels different.”

When the hall was empty, he followed them outside.

The air was colder now, though the sun still shone. The sky had taken on a metallic quality, like brushed steel. Shadows looked sharper and too well defined. His own stretched long across the tarmac, unnaturally crisp.

A man across the street stood on his doorstep, staring upward with eclipse glasses. He lowered them when he saw Tom.

“Feels odd, doesn’t it?” he called.

“Yeah.”

The man hesitated. “My dog’s gone under the bed. Won’t come out.”

Tom didn’t know what to say to that, so he went back inside.

At 10:05, the eclipse reached its peak. The hall dimmed as though a cloud had passed over, but there were no clouds. The light became a strange, colourless glow. Neither day nor night. The overhead lights flickered again, this time for longer.

Tom walked to the centre of the hall and stood still. The silence was absolute. He was acutely aware of his own breathing, the faint hum of the radiators and the distant ticking of the wall clock. But nothing else. No cars. No voices. No birds. No wind.

He felt suddenly and intensely aware of himself. His heartbeat, the weight of his clothes and the dryness of his mouth. As if the eclipse had peeled back something, exposing the raw edges of his very existence.

He closed his eyes for a moment, to centre his thoughts. When he opened them again, the hall looked different. Not in a dramatic way. Nothing had moved. But the colours were somehow wrong. The wooden floor seemed darker, while the walls looked paler. The air felt viscous, as though he were underwater. His shadow lay on the floor at an angle that didn’t match the sun’s position.

He blinked hard. The shadow didn’t change. A prickling sensation crawled up his spine.

He took a step backward. His shadow lagged a fraction of a second behind, then snapped into place at his heels.

He froze. The radiators continued to hum. The clock kept ticking. His breath came in short, shallow gasps.

He lifted his hand slowly. His shadow lifted its hand too... but not quite in sync... A heartbeat too late. A definite hesitation.

He lowered his hand. The shadow followed, again with that slight delay.

He suddenly felt cold and backed away until his shoulders touched the wall. His shadow stretched across the floor, elongated and distorted, as though the light source had shifted with him. But the sun outside remained steady, its crescent shape uncanny but unchanged.

He whispered, “This isn’t right.”

The shadow twitched. He stopped breathing. For a moment, nothing moved. Then the shadow’s head tilted. Just a fraction. Just enough to be unmistakable.

Tom bolted for the door.

Outside, the world looked drained. People stood in small clusters along the pavement, all staring upward. Their faces were pale in the strange light, eyes wide behind eclipse glasses. No one spoke.

Tom ran across the car park, his footsteps sounding too loud in the prolonged silence. He reached the exit and stopped, his chest heaving. The sky was wrong. The blue had gone entirely, replaced by a flat, colourless expanse. The sun hung like a thin, counterfeit coin with a bitten edge. Shadows stretched long and thin, all pointing slightly off-centre, as though the light were coming from a place it shouldn’t.

He looked down. His own shadow lay at his feet, elongated and trembling faintly as if in a heat haze. He stepped backward. It followed... this time perfectly in sync. He exhaled shakily.

A woman nearby lowered her eclipse glasses. Her face was tight with fear.

“Do you feel it?” she whispered.

Tom nodded.

She swallowed. “It feels like… like something’s looking back.”

He didn’t answer.

At 10:17, the light began to return. Slowly, colour seeped back into the world. The sky regained a hint of blue. Shadows shortened. The metallic sheen faded. Sound also returned in fragments: a distant car engine, a dog barking, the rustle of leaves. People exhaled collectively, as though they’d been holding their breath for the entire duration of the eclipse.

Tom stood still, watching his shadow. It behaved normally now, moving with him and matching him perfectly. But he didn’t trust it.

He walked back into the hall. Its interior looked normal again. Warm light and familiar colours. The radiators maintained their steady hum. The clock continued to keep time

He stood in the centre of the room and lifted his hand. His shadow lifted its hand instantly. He lowered it again and the shadow followed.

He let out a long, relieved breath. Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe the strange light had played tricks on his eyes. Maybe the silence had made him jumpy.

He returned to the reception desk. Behind him, on the floor, his shadow hesitated... just for a fraction of a second... before following. But he didn’t notice it.

The rest of the day passed in a kind of subdued haze. People talked about the eclipse. About how eerie it had felt. About how the birds had fallen silent. But they laughed it off, mostly. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. Something to remember.

For the remainder of his working day, Tom just went through the motions. Checked bookings. Answered phone calls. Fixed a loose hinge on the storage cupboard. But he felt watched. Not by anyone in the hall, as it was quiet that afternoon. But by something just behind him, just out of sight. Something that made him avoid looking at the floor.

At 3:12, while sorting paperwork, he dropped a pen. It rolled under the desk. He crouched to retrieve it. His shadow crouched too. But its head turned slightly, as though looking at him.

He froze. The shadow didn’t move either. He straightened slowly, his heart pounding. The shadow straightened too. Perfectly in sync. He backed away from the desk and the shadow followed.

He whispered, “What do you want?”

The shadow didn’t answer. But it seemed to pulse, faintly, with its own heartbeat.

By closing time, Tom felt frayed. He restacked the chairs, checked the windows, turned off the lights and locked the hall. The sun was low now, the sky streaked with orange and pink. Normal colours. Normal sunset.

He stepped outside. His shadow stretched long across the pavement, perfectly ordinary in the evening glow. He exhaled deeply as he walked toward the car park. Behind him, his shadow lengthened... slightly more than it should... reaching a fraction farther, stretching back toward the hall door. But he didn’t notice.

He reached his car, unlocked it and got inside. The interior smelled of old upholstery and the residue of last week’s takeaway. He started the engine.

As he pulled out of the car park, the hall stood silent behind him, its windows reflecting the fading sky. Inside, on the wooden floor, a single elongated shadow lay stretched across the boards. Though no one stood above it. It twitched once, then stilled.

Tom didn’t sleep well that night. He dreamed of the eclipse, of the metallic sky, of shadows that moved with a mind of their own. He woke repeatedly, his heart racing. The room was too dark. Too quiet.

At dawn, he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. His shadow lay at his feet, soft and faint in the early light. He lifted his hand. The shadow lifted its hand instantly.

He exhaled and stood up. The shadow stood. He walked to the window. The shadow followed. He turned to leave the room. The shadow hesitated... just a fraction of a second...  before following.

He saw it this time and froze in place. The shadow froze too.

He whispered, “Please stop.”

The shadow didn’t move. He stepped backward. It followed. Perfectly in sync again.

He closed his eyes to pull himself together. When he re-opened them, the shadow was gone. Just the soft morning light on the carpet. Maybe it had been nothing. A trick of the light. A lingering unease from the eclipse.

He dressed slowly, then went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He sat at the breakfast bar and lifted his mug to his lips. The kettle clicked as it cooled.

Across the table, on the wall, his shadow lifted its mug too. But its hand was angled wrong. Its fingers were too long and too thin.

He dropped the mug. It shattered on the floor.

The shadow didn’t move. It remained seated, holding its own impossible, unbroken mug. Its head tilted slightly, as though watching him.

The morning light brightened. The shadow faded. Tom stood alone in the kitchen, trembling.

Outside, the birds sang. The world looked normal. But the eclipse had left something behind.