Francisco Sombra assumed there would be more to life than this. As a retired royal poet, and old enough to welcome his meeting with death, Francisco concluded that he had experienced all life had to offer.

He was awarded honors, given nobility status of a conquered island nation, and even witnessed, documented, and published the world’s only description of the panthera nautilus, a ferocious ocean predator the size of the kingdom’s finest merchant vessel. At one hundred and nine years old, Francisco was certain there was no surprise left in his life.

One day, when Francisco stopped, as he often did, to admire his favorite mural during his morning route, which included one coffee with a pinch of sugar and a mint leaf he produced from his threadbare jacket. Today, he was especially interested in not the painting itself, but the deteriorating effects of rain, light, and tactile admiration from other pedestrians.

At first, he examined only with his eyes and allowed his feet to guide him. The mural was of an outdated depiction of his most famous discovery. The mural of the panthera nautilus covered nearly a whole block and, at one end, began with its six spindly arms (even though Francisco’s official account documented just two spindly arms and two pairs of grasping tentacles) and ended with an embellishment that was both a horn and shell (this was, of course, proven to be true as the creature sported both meandering horns and a shell that protected its pectoral region, according to Francisco Sombra’s official account).

Francisco Sombra so enjoyed this mural because it showed how confident people can be, even when they were absolutely wrong. If it weren’t for people like him, people who dedicate their entire lives to the pursuit of truth, people would be wrong and be happy in their being wrong. This, he calculated after he had accumulated lifetimes of experience and knowledge.

He could not predict, however, why, when he lifted his hand to touch the beast’s snout, his shadow did not meet him there. Francisco spun around as fast as a centennial could and confirmed that the sun was indeed behind him as it was—he checked his pocket watch that was gifted by the Sultanate of the Blood Sea—6 PM and the sun was indeed setting behind him.

He looked down and saw that no dark form stretched from his feet.

Looking for another to share his panic, Francisco Sombra heard a loud group of people gathering near the town’s small port. He shuffled his way two blocks down, being so much in a hurry that his spare mint leaves drifted behind him, meeting their shadows when they floated to the ground.

The commotion appeared to be a celebration.

“The panthera nautilus has been caught!” a local marine collector rejoiced.

“We will commemorate this day and celebrate it for generations to come,” announced the coastal prince who was also Francisco’s benefactor for his third memoir “One Hundred and Nine Lives Lived.”

A rival naturalist and muralist, coincidentally the same one Francisco pitifully admired, smirked and said, bumping Francisco’s fragile side, “Our creature has six arms, old man.”

As Francisco readied his rebuttal, he caught a glimpse of the fisherman. A figure, about his size, stood proudly next to the coastal prince. It was faceless and shapeless. As the sun continued to set, its form, began to disintegrate into the night.

The feast and celebration of the catching, describing, and immortalizing the great panthera nautilus continued for weeks. While Francisco’s appetite for life returned, his shadow did not.

“A small price to pay for scientific truth,” he concluded.