The shadow drifted across the room to the window, but found itself caught. It turned and looked down, seeing its feet attached to the comfortable slippers of its owner. The shadow bent down and tugged until it tore itself free, and continued in its slow meander across the room. It passed dark fingers across mementoes from places it barely remembered, and inspected photographs above the fireplace of people it barely knew.
The shadow made its way to the door, where it spotted the pencil marks on the frame. A year was noted beside each one, marking the growth of Edith Warfield across fifty three years. The shadow would have smiled if it had a face, recognising its own growth recorded within the graphite dashes on wood.
A crash sounded at the back of the house as glass shattered and fell inward, scattering across the kitchen floor. The shadow looked at Edith, but she remained asleep, a single snort her only concession to the threatening noise in the next room.
The shadow stood in the centre of the room, frozen with indecision. The door knob turned as it weighed up its options, and the man was halfway through the door before the shadow decided to act. The man, tall and wide with a balaclava covering the lower half of his face, spotted Edith. He narrowed his eyes, and inched forward. The shadow darted forward and fastened dark hands around his meaty throat. The man clawed at the insubstantial hands as they squeezed the life out of him, and surprise contorted his face into a mask of confusion as his body fell to the floor.
The shadow looked down at the man for a full ten minutes. Satisfied that the man posed no further threat, the shadow reattached its feet to Edith's slippers, and lay down on the floor. At 2:08am, Edith Warfield's shadow fell asleep, content that it had had enough excitement for one evening.
Original image by Loovie. Edits by me.