Ana took the Polaroid. She aimed it at the wall, at the space where his shadow should have been. She pressed the shutter. The camera whirred, spat out a black square, and slowly, the image developed.
“What was stolen, Domnule Munteanu?”
“Three nights ago, I fell asleep in the armchair. When I woke up, the light from the streetlamp came through the window. It cast my silhouette on the wall. But the silhouette… it moved. First, it just twitched. Then it stood up. And walked away. It’s been gone since then.”
“What camera?”
Ana sighed. This was the third such report this month. Secția 7 was built on an old cemetery—a fact the older officers knew but never put in writing.