Mortimer S. Spindlewhisk The Mystery of the Vanishing Shadows

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It was a Wednesday disguised as a Tuesday, and the rain fell in drops that sounded like question marks as they hit the windowpane. Mortimer S. Spindlewhisk sat in his moss-green armchair, legs crossed, pondering the mystery of the unexpected—when someone knocked. Not a vigorous hammering, but a cautious tap-tock, as if someone were doubting their own existence. The visitor was a raccoon wearing a hat that had seen too many winters and a briefcase visibly burdened with emotional weight. "You must help me," he whispered. "My shadows are gone." Mortimer raised an eyebrow. "How many?" "All seven." "A bit much for one person." "I... I have many facets. One is a juggler, one is a poet, one—I'm ashamed—was an accountant." Mortimer, who had already experienced weeping cockatoos, lying mirrors, and philosophizing clocks, was unimpressed. "When did you last see them?" "Yesterday. They were sitting by the fire, drinking tea. Then... nothing. Gone." The trail led him into the underworld of alleys—where streetlights no longer shine, but only murmur. A forgotten place beneath the old viaduct, where shadows sometimes seek refuge. There he met them—a slender, black cat with eyes like midnight and a silver lantern. She stood between the pillars, where dark shapes clung to the walls. "I didn't kidnap them," she purred. "They came willingly. They wanted peace. The juggler was exhausted. The bookkeeper had lost his sense of numbers." "And the poet?" "Wanted to forget what he once wrote." Mortimer stepped closer. The shadows twitched. They remembered. Slowly, two of them detached themselves from the wall—the poet and the juggler. The accountant stayed. "I'll live with fewer 'I's," murmured the raccoon. "Two are enough. The accountant can stay. Perhaps he'll establish a shadow tax here." Mortimer nodded. "We should let some of the shares go before they completely obscure us." He stroked his whiskers, accepted seven kopecks, and disappeared—like a thought one never fully understands, but also never forgets.