For the cold nights. For memories.” He hands me a glass, and I watch the liquid catch the light, a slow swirl of gold. I’ve had his rakia before—too many times to count. It’s always strong, always sweet, and always just a little too much. But I sip anyway. Warmth spreads through my chest, a slow, steady burn that settles somewhere beneath my ribs. Rado watches me, his eyes sharp beneath his thick, grey eyebrows. “You’re quiet today,” he says. “More than usual.” “I didn’t think I was.” “You’re thinking of something you won’t say.” He grins, showing the gap in his front teeth. “It’s always the same with you. Your father was the same. Always a head full of storms.” My fingers tighten around the glass. “You knew him?” “Knew him? We drank together. We talked, when he talked.” Rado’s grin fades, his eyes going distant. “He wasn’t a man of many words. But when he spoke, you listened.” I don’t say anything. I can still hear his voice sometimes—the quiet, calm way he explained the sky, the smoke curling between us. But the more I try to remember, the more it blurs. And then I wonder if I’m remembering him, or just the way I thought he was. “You never ask about him,” Rado says, leaning back, his own glass already half empty. “Not like most would. You keep it locked up. Like he did.” “Maybe it’s easier that way.” “Is it?” I shrug, but even that feels like a lie. I take another sip, letting the warmth spread, trying to push the cold knot out of my chest. “Do you miss him?” I ask before I can stop myself. Rado’s smile softens, a sad, quiet thing. “We’re too old for that, Kalina. We don’t miss. We remember.” The silence stretches, broken only by the faint hum of the copper stills, the slow drip of something golden and strong pooling in a glass jar. Outside, the wind presses against the window, a whisper of rain tapping against the glass. “He talked about you sometimes,” Rado says suddenly, and I look up. “Not often. Not in a way you’d expect. But you were there, in his stories. Even when he didn’t say your name.” “What did he say?” “He said you saw the world differently. That you had a way of looking at things—like you were always trying to find the light.” Rado’s voice is softer now, a quiet echo. “He never said it, but he was proud. You could hear it. In the way he talked.” A lump rises in my throat, and I take another sip to burn it away. The warmth spreads, but it doesn’t reach the cold in my chest. “Did he… Did he say why he left?” Rado looks at me, the room suddenly too small, the air too thick. “No,” he says, after a long, heavy silence. “But sometimes… Sometimes not knowing is a kind of mercy.” I want to be angry at that. I want to shout, to demand an answer, to make sense of the ache that never really goes away. But I don’t. I just finish the rakia, the burn turning bitter in my mouth. “Drink with me,” Rado says, pouring another. “For old men and young women who ask too many questions.” But this time, I don’t drink. I stand, the warmth turning to a tight knot in my chest. I feel the walls pressing in, the faint smell of dust and alcohol suffocating. “I should go.” “Kalina…” “I’m fine. I just—thank you. For the drink. For… everything.” I turn before he can say anything else, the cold air of the hallway rushing around me like a gasp. I take the stairs two at a time, my shoes slapping against the worn stone, the shadows of the building stretching like long fingers. Outside, the rain is falling, a slow, silent mist that clings to everything. I stand in it, letting it chill my skin, letting it wash the burn away. Rado’s voice echoes in my mind. You were there, in his stories. Even when he didn’t say your name. But which stories? What did he say? What did he hide? And what am I not seeing? I start walking, the rain blurring the streetlights, turning them to pale ghosts. The city hums around
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🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 4
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