Kings Cross, Sydney — September 7th, 2008.
Night—around 12 A.M.
The train rolled in, slicing through the city.
He sat on the park bench, jacket zipper up, collar turned high. It was colder than usual, even from a Sydney night.
The grass glistened under the few streetlights, and the swings creaked softly in the breeze.
Danny had stopped going to pubs tonight. No fights, no crowds, just silence. But something felt wrong.
His hands were clean—no cuts, no bruises. That felt wrong too.
Usually, every night he used to have a scratch, bruise, or pain. But tonight nothing.
It was like he hadn't done anything. Like he hadn't existed at all. He checked his phone. Nothing from Claire. Not even the usual. 'Let's talk tomorrow.'
He looked up at the night sky. No stars, just clouds and yellow streetlight haze. He hated that about the city—even the sky was full of noise.
He pulled out his wallet. It wasn't his. It had his ID—Danny Clarke—but the leather was brand new. The stitching was neat and beautiful. It smelled of cologne he didn't wear.
He stared at it. Then flipped through. Receipts from places he'd never been. A doctor's card. A business card: 'Daniel Clarke—Office Manager.'
He stood suddenly, breathing shallowly. The cold didn't help. Who the hell was Daniel? Was this some kind of joke
He stuffed the wallet away and walked fast, faster. Through the park gates, down narrow roads, towards the river.
The sound of water calmed him, always had. But tonight it made him nervous—too many thoughts swirled like currents.
He stopped under a bridge and stared at the reflection. The face in the dark puddle looked like him, but at the same time different.
"Who are you?" He whispered.
He reached for a cigarette but found a mint tin instead. Inside were no cigarettes—just tiny pills. White, round. Prescription?
He didn't know where they'd come from. Did he take them? Or did Daniel?
He leaned against the brick wall and laughed—sharp and bitter. The laugh echoed back at him, too loud for the quiet around him.
Maybe he was losing it.
He sat down, back to the wall, heart pounding. If there was another man…he was living inside him.
And if he wasn't…then Danny had started building a stranger inside his own just to make life bearable.
Baulkham Hills, Sydney — September 8th, 2008.
Morning, 10:40 A.M.
The school auditorium smelled faintly of disinfectant and old plastic chairs. Children's drawing were pinned on corkboards along the hallway—smiling stick families, suns with sunglasses, and rainbows that broke all color rules.
Daniel walked slowly, checking the signs, following the soft murmurs of other parents. He'd almost forgotten the time and didn't show up.
Claire had reminded him that morning—with that look. That one that said. 'you said you'd be there, so don't disappear.'
He made it here, somehow. But he felt like he didn't belong here.
He scanned the crowd and saw Ethan sitting cross-legged on stage, practicing his lines with another child. He looked nervous and excited.
Daniel smiled. Then noticed—he was the only father in a suit. Everyone else was in sweaters, jackets, jeans.
He'd forgotten to change.
Claire joined him a moment later. "Made it," she said with a small smile.
He nodded, unsure how to respond. He had made it, but at what cost?
He hadn't worked today. He didn't remember why. He just stayed home.
He spent an hour staring at the wardrobe, trying to pick something. Ended up in this suit without knowing why. The tie still didn't feel right.
The lights dimmed. Children began their performance—something about space and stars. Daniel tried to watch, tried to focus. But his mind wandered.
How had he gotten here? He used to be reliable. Punctual and precise. But now?
His own schedule confused him. Claire had to remind him of things he used to remember instinctively. Memories slipped, like wet paper in his hands.
There was a tremor inside him—not of fear, but of hollowness. Like a man made of cardboard.
"Did you sleep okay?" Claire whispered, not taking her eyes off Ethan.
Daniel nodded. "I think so."
But he didn't know. The last two nights were blank, again.
He rubbed his temples. There was a bruise behind his ear he didn't remember getting. It made him wonder how the hell did he get the bruise in that place.
He felt his body moving through life—talking, eating, driving—but it didn't feel inhabited.
He watched Ethan finish his lines. The applause swelled, and Daniel clapped along, heart heavy. His son was growing, laughing—and he felt like a ghost in the audience.
After the show, Claire said, "you okay?"
He smiled, a hollow smile. "Just tired."
"You've been tired a lot."
"Work."
She didn't buy it, but she didn't press either.
On the way home, Daniel stared out the window. Sydney passed by—people on phones, cafes spilling with quiet noise, buses rumbling past.
All normal, but inside him, something wasn't normal and he no longer believed it was just stress.
It felt like someone was living his life at night.
And he wasn't sure if he was the original…or the shadow.