What Sleeps – Extrait 9
biting at my cheeks. I pass the square, the old fountain a shadowed blur, the empty benches wet and dark. I cross the narrow street, my steps quick, my breath a faint mist. And then I see him. A figure, standing just beyond the tram line, his back to me, his coat dark against the pale mist. Tall, thin, leaning slightly, one hand in his pocket, the other resting against the iron railing. My heart stutters, a cold, sharp ache spreading through my chest. I stop, the wet cobblestones slick beneath me, my breath catching. “Dad?” The word is a whisper, swallowed by the mist. The figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn. Just stands there, still and silent, a shadow against the pale light. I take a step forward, the ache tightening, my fingers numb against the cold. Another step. And another. The mist curls around me, the street fading, the city a pale, distant hum. “Dad?” Louder this time. But he doesn’t move. I’m closer now, close enough to see the faint outline of his shoulders, the curve of his coat, the pale mist curling around his feet. Another step. The cold presses in, the silence too thick, too sharp. And then he turns. Not my father. A young man, maybe thirty, his face pale in the dim light, his eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his hat. He looks at me, his gaze calm, almost curious. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice too thin. “I thought you were—” “Looking for someone?” His voice is warm, a faint smile touching his lips. “I think we all are.” I should turn away, should walk, should leave. But I stand there, the cold air pressing against me, the ache twisting beneath my ribs. “I… I thought you were someone else.” “Don’t we all?” he says, his smile soft, almost sad. “Sometimes we spend so long looking for someone, we forget who we’re running from.” His words catch, a faint, sharp ache beneath them. I don’t answer, don’t move. Just stand there, the mist pressing against us, the city a pale, shivering ghost around us. “You shouldn’t walk alone in the mist,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It has a way of making ghosts out of the living.” “I’m not afraid of ghosts,” I whisper, but even I don’t believe it. “Maybe not.” He steps closer, his coat brushing against my sleeve, the scent of rain and something else—something sharp, metallic. “But they seem to find you anyway.” I want to ask what he means, want to ask who he is, why he’s here. But the words catch, the cold pressing against my throat. “Be careful, Kalina.” My breath catches. “How do you—?” But he’s already moving, stepping past me, his coat a dark blur in the mist, his steps slow, deliberate. I turn, the cold knot twisting, my pulse too loud, too fast. “Wait—how do you know my name?” But he doesn’t answer. His steps fade, swallowed by the mist, his shadow melting into the pale fog. I stand there, the ache in my chest a slow, sharp twist. My fingers numb against the cold. The tram tracks glisten beneath the pale light, the rain a faint, silent whisper. I turn, my feet moving, my breath sharp and thin. I don’t look back. I don’t call out. I just walk, the mist curling around me, the streetlights a pale, trembling glow. But his voice stays, twisting around me like a whisper. Be careful, Kalina. How does he know my name? The mist thickens, the city a blurred shadow, the lights fading, the cold pressing against my skin. I take the long way home. Through the narrow streets, the empty square, past the old bakery with its shuttered windows. The mist is a pale, shivering cloak, the rain a faint, steady whisper. My breath curls against the air, a thin, silver thread. And then I see it. The building. My building. The pale, cracked walls, the narrow stairwell, the old iron railing. But the window—my window—is dark. And the door is open. Not wide, just a crack. Just a faint, narrow sliver of darkness spilling out, a pale, thin line against the
⬅️ Extrait précédent | Extrait suivant ➡️
🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 9
No comments:
Post a Comment