What Sleeps – Extrait 19
hand, the pale blue paper crumpled, the ink faint, smudged. Her name, written again and again. Kalina. Kalina. Kalina. And then his name. Andrei. She closed her eyes, the ache twisting, sharp, a knife buried beneath her chest. His name was a whisper tangled in the rain, a ghost pressed against the glass, a shadow that never left. She thought of the old woman, her voice a faint, dying thread. The pale, reaching fingers, the dark stains curling around her like a shroud. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” But who was he? Who was she? Why did it matter? Why wouldn’t it leave? The room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your skin, that wrapped around your thoughts, that twisted around you like cold sheets. The rain whispered against the glass, a soft, silver thread, the city a pale, shivering ghost beyond the mist. She remembered him. Andrei. Not just a name. Not just a shadow. But a voice. A quiet, calm voice that spoke of things she didn’t understand. A voice that saw too much, that asked too little. A voice that was always there until it wasn’t. Gone. But not gone. A door that closed without a sound. A silence that never left. Kalina turned, her eyes drifting across the room, the faint, pale light spilling against the cracked walls. The curtains hung heavy, pale, damp. The floor was cold beneath her feet, the air thick, damp, pressing against her skin. She thought of the man in the lobby. The dark coat. The pale, thin smile. The way his voice slipped through the quiet, soft, calm, a whisper that knew too much. “I know you.” He didn’t know her. He couldn’t. He was just a shadow, just a voice pressed against the darkness. But he had spoken her name. He had known about the old woman. Known what she had said. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” But who? Who was he? Who was she? Who was he waiting for? A gust of wind pressed against the window, the rain a faint, shivering tap, the mist twisting, curling, a pale, silver veil. The room was too still, too quiet, the darkness pressing, thick, damp. Kalina moved, her fingers brushing against the cold, chipped surface of the table, the letter crumpled, smudged, her name twisting, fading. Her pulse was a slow, heavy drumbeat, each breath a thin, sharp thread. She thought of calling Ina. Thought of hearing that soft, gentle voice, the faint, quiet concern pressing against her like warm hands. But she couldn’t. Not now. Not like this. She thought of Alexei. His fingers stained with blue, his voice a quiet, steady hum. The way his brush moved, slow, patient, tracing shadows that never stayed still. The way he looked at her, his eyes dark, calm, watching. But she didn’t want to be watched. Didn’t want to be seen. Didn’t want to be a shadow on his canvas. She was alone. Here, in this room. In this quiet, pressing darkness. Alone with his name. Alone with the ache that wouldn’t leave. Andrei. The room knew his name. The walls seemed to breathe it, the pale curtains seemed to whisper it, the rain traced it against the glass. A name that never left. A ghost that never faded. She pressed her hand against the window, the cold glass a faint, sharp bite against her skin. The mist twisted beyond the glass, the pale streetlight a faint, sickly glow, the city a blurred, shivering shadow. And then she saw it. A figure. A dark shape, standing beneath the pale light, a shadow leaning against the railing. Still. Silent. Watching. Her breath caught, the ache twisting, sharp, pressing. Her fingers tightened against the glass, her pulse too loud, too fast. “Andrei…” The word slipped out, a faint, thin breath, tangled in the rain. The figure didn’t move. Just stood there, a dark shape pressed against the pale, sickly light, the mist curling around it like a shroud. Her heart was too loud, too fast, her breath sharp, thin, tearing at her chest. It couldn’t be him.
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🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 19
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