Rusted Shadow: the Last Observer

Before she died, grandma held my hand tightly and said, "Nanny, remember, don't touch those red embroidered shoes." On the seventh day after her death, the shoes showed themselves on the doorstep of my house. And I didn't touch it. But my shadow started to move on its own. It would give me a weird smile when I turned around. In order to survive, I found the night watchmen, and they told me three iron rules: "1. Touch and mark." "2. The shadow will come alive when you are alone." "3. Questioning oneself will accelerate replacement." I kept it in mind until I discovered that there was a deeper trap hidden in my grandma's last words—the emphasis on the word "touch" in her words was itself a lie. And when I went through all the hardships and thought I had found a glimmer of hope, I realized the deepest despair: Every step I struggled with, I fed it. Every rule I understand is a cage tailor-made for me. Now, my shadow is slowly choking me. It whispered in my ear: "Who... Are... You...?"