The Shadowless Man of Dinkelsbühl

A quiet disappearance in a town that never forgets.

Manfred Ihring was a man shaped by yesterday. The kind of man who drinks coffee without sugar, knows the history of every crack in the sidewalk, and remembers when the trees in the town square were shorter.

He lived alone, up in a crooked old house on Segringer Street. From his attic window he could see the city wall and the powder tower. The house creaked when it breathed. His jackets smelled like pipe smoke and long winters. He didn’t mind.

Every night, right when St. George’s bell rang nine times, he stepped outside. Same path, always. Along the old battlements, past the mill, through Rothenburg Gate.
In Dinkelsbühl, such habits don’t seem strange. The whole town is made of memory, steep roofs, timbered facades, narrow alleys that forget where they’re going. It’s a place that remembers for you, even when you don’t want it to.

Then came the night. The one in late October. Cold air that smelled like wet wood and leaves going soft. Manfred stopped on Rosengasse. Just stopped. Not because of anything he saw.

Because of what wasn’t there.

No shadow.

He raised his hand. Turned in place. Nothing followed. The old gaslamp above flickered but stayed on. The light spilled over him like water over stone. But he cast no shadow.

He went home without finishing the walk. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. Maybe it was age. Maybe it was nothing.

The next day, he stood at the fountain in full sunlight. People moved around him. They had shadows. He still didn’t.

He watched the light hit his shoes. The stones at his feet. Nothing. No edge. No outline.

People started to notice. First with nervous glances, then with silences.
The baker stopped smiling.
The kids stopped playing when he passed.
Once, a girl whispered to her brother: “The man without a shadow is coming.”

He heard it. He didn’t say anything.

It didn’t hurt.
It felt like being peeled.

That’s when other things started happening. Small, but wrong. He couldn’t see himself in the mirror. He couldn’t see his breath in the cold. The wooden floor in his apartment didn’t creak under his steps anymore.

He dreamed. Strange things. Twisting alleys under the town. Tunnels that didn’t lead anywhere. Something waited down there. Something that remembered him. Something he used to carry.

He stopped answering the phone. Stopped unlocking the mailbox. He wasn’t afraid, not exactly. Just… removed. Like a library book that had been misfiled a long time ago.

Then came All Hallows' Eve.

The fog was thick that night. It rolled in early and didn’t leave. Everything was quiet. Even the bells seemed muffled.

He walked.

And in Rosengasse, under that same flickering lamp, it was there.

His shadow.

Standing alone on the wall.

It moved, just slightly, like heat above asphalt. He stepped closer. The shape didn’t match the light. It didn’t need it.

“I waited,” the shadow said.

Its voice wasn’t loud, but he heard it clear as anything. Not in his ears. In his ribs.

“You forgot me. But I didn’t forget you.”

He didn’t reply. What do you say to something you’ve lived with your whole life, until it decides you don’t deserve it anymore?

The shadow came closer. Not fast. Just… deliberate. With each step, the air got colder. Not the skin kind of cold. The kind that sinks into words. The kind that makes thoughts freeze in place.

“You left yourself behind,” it said. “Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left to cast.”

He nodded.

That was true.

And then he was gone.

The next morning, his house was empty. No signs of struggle. The police said he must’ve left town. Case closed.

But folks around Dinkelsbühl still talk.

They say on foggy nights, near the Wörnitz Gate, you might see a shadow without a man. Just drifting, slow and steady across the stones. Looks like it’s wearing a hat. Stands just like a man who used to teach history.

If you see him, don’t stop.

Some say he’s looking for someone. Someone whose shadow he can borrow. Maybe for a while.
Maybe forever.

Dinkelsbühl doesn’t forget.

Not even the parts that vanish

.