Once upon a time there was a dog named Tobia who had a very important mission: keeping shadows in order.
Not the shadows of furniture.
The shadows of people.
If a shadow was too long, Tobia would follow it until it became shorter.
If it was crooked against a wall, he would stare at it with a serious expression.
“A little discipline,” he would mutter.
But shadows did whatever they wanted. They stretched, they shrank, they disappeared without warning
One afternoon the sun hid behind a cloud.
And the shadows vanished.
The square became perfect. Smooth. Without a single flaw.
Tobia looked around, satisfied.
Then he took a step.
And realized something was missing.
His shadow wasn’t there either.
He tried jumping.
Nothing.
He tried running.
Still nothing.
Suddenly he felt very light. Too light.
When the sun came back out, his shadow reappeared in front of him. A little long. A little crooked. With oversized ears.
Tobia looked at it carefully.
It wasn’t in order.
But it was his.
He took a step. The shadow followed.
He stopped. It stopped.
So Tobia sat down and decided to leave it exactly as it was.
From that day on, he still kept an eye on other shadows.
But when he saw one slightly crooked, he no longer tried to fix it.
Because he had understood something:
If there’s a shadow, it means there’s sunlight somewhere.
And sunlight, most of the time, knows what it’s doing.