This is a short story I wrote for my writing group. It’s based on the following prompt:

I see him every day. He’s tall and broad-shouldered. He’s not lanky like some tall men. He’s filled out nicely, with a bit of a dad bod. He has copper hair and dark stubble on his chin every morning. He has freckles, a whole delightful smattering of freckles all over his face. I see him every day and I always think he’s so handsome.

Sometimes I let my imagination get carried away. I like to guess what people do for a living based on their clothes. That woman who rides the bus on Tuesdays and Thursdays is an artist. I can tell because she always has pencils stuck in her curly hair, and charcoal smudges on her chin. The old man who sits in the front seat on Wednesdays used to be a barista. He smells of coffee and wears an old, brown newsie cap. The woman with the green backpack—the one who doesn’t seem to have a set bus schedule—is a high school dropout working at a hotel bar. She hides her more revealing dresses under layers of sweatshirts and over brightly colored leggings.

Of course I don’t know if any of this is true. But it’s a fun way to pass the time. The freckled man doesn’t have a set job. Sometimes I imagine him as a rugged farmer, herding unruly sheep through treacherous, foggy mountains as he beats away wolves with a stick. Other days he’s an engineer sipping coffee at his expensive computer. Sometimes he’s a doctor or a lawyer or a fireman. Sometimes he’s a kindergarten teacher who tucks dandelions behind his ears when his class picks them for him in the springtime.

Today he gets on the bus and he sits down next to me. I take a deep breath and steel my nerves. This is it. The perfect opportunity to solve the mystery of Freckle Man and maybe even become an acquaintance.

I clear my throat and turn toward him.

“Good morning! I hope this isn’t weird to say, but I’ve noticed you ride this bus as often as I do. I’m Calla. What’s your name?”

The man stares straight ahead. He doesn’t say anything, but his body tenses up. I quickly glance at his ears to confirm there are no headphones. He should be able to hear me, unless he’s deaf. I suppose I hadn’t considered that possibility until now.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I say. Perhaps it’s best not to push things. Sometimes there’s magic in the mystery. If Freckle Man doesn’t want to talk, we don’t have to talk.

I settle back against the seat and the man slowly turns to look at me. His eyes are wide and his brow is creased. His expression darkens. “You…you shouldn’t be able to see me,” he says.

His voice is as full and deep as I imagined it being. It’s also shaky, which notably does not match my daydreams. After blinking at him a few times, my brain begins to process his words.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask.

“You can see me?”

“…Yes. That’s an…odd thing to say,” I say.

He scoffs and turns away from me. “Don’t you think it’s odd to strike up conversation with a stranger?”

“I…I do not. I think it’s rather normal. People do it all the time.”

At this, he laughs. It’s a dark and foreboding sort of laugh, like one a cartoon villain might use. We stare at each other for a bit, considering one another. In all my various daydreams, I never pictured this moment going like this.

“Calla, was it?” he says, pausing only long enough to see me nod. “Here’s the deal: I’m not a person. While people may strike up conversation all the time, I don’t.”

Oh. I get it. I creeped him out by telling him I’ve seen him before. He’s messing with me.

I sigh. “Sorry, again, for disturbing you. We don’t have to continue speaking if you don’t want to.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t get it. Look around. How are the other passengers responding to our conversation?”

I look. Most of the other passengers seem to be ignoring us. One woman meets my gaze and immediately looks away. A middle aged man glares at me. A teenager points her phone’s camera at me and snickers. They’re not ignoring us—they’re avoiding looking at…at me.

I lean back against the seat and stare at my hands in my lap. As quietly as I can, I whisper, “If you’re not a person, what are you?”

He chuckles. “Now you’re asking the right questions. I’m a Shadow, a dark reflection of an identical creature who dwells…well, someplace else.”

“What?” I whisper.

“Think of me like a sort of avatar. But, you know, that’s not actually what matters. What matters is if you can see me, you’re in danger.”

I roll my eyes. “Danger from what, exactly?” I mutter, too annoyed to keep up my subtle whispering.

“Multiple planes of reality exist along the same stretch of space and at the same time. Every now and then, those planes overlap. My plane is generally invisible to your plane, while your plane is very visible to mine. If you can see me, you’re a Plane Shifter. And Plane Shifters are considered criminals. If they find you, they’ll kill you.”

My stomach starts to knot up inside of me. I venture another glance at this so-called Shadow man. He looks back, expressionless, waiting.

“Who?” I ask.

The bus stops and passengers file off and on. The Shadow and I stay seated, staring at each other. Then, just before the bus pulls away, two figures in glowing lilac robes step on the bus. Their faces are covered and they look much too tall to be human.

The Shadow nods in their direction. “Them. They’ll kill you.”