What Sleeps – Extrait 10
mist. My heart stutters, a cold, sharp ache pressing against my chest. I stop, the wet cobblestones slick beneath me, my breath a faint mist. The door isn’t supposed to be open. I locked it. I always lock it. But it’s open. A faint creak echoes, a whisper of movement. The mist curls around me, the pale streetlight a thin, trembling glow. “Hello?” My voice is too small, swallowed by the cold air. Nothing. Just the faint, rhythmic creak of the door, swinging against the frame. I take a step forward, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag, the ache twisting, pressing. Another step. And another. The mist presses in, thick and damp, the pale light blurring, the cold biting at my cheeks. I reach out, my fingers brushing against the cold metal of the handle. The door swings inward, a faint, hollow moan whispering through the dark hallway. And I see it. A letter. Pale blue, almost translucent, resting on the floor just inside the door. No name. No address. Just there. Waiting. Chapter 8: Mira Adds a Cookie I keep walking. I don’t know where. I don’t know why. The mist is thick, the rain a thin, cold whisper against my face. My feet press against the wet cobblestones, the ache twisting, sharp and heavy, a knife buried beneath my ribs. I think of the letter. His name. My name. My name twisted around me, a ghost, a curse, a question I can’t answer. I turn a corner. The mist thickens, a pale, silver sheet, the streetlights a sickly yellow blur. The city is a ghost. The buildings are shadows. The sky is a pale, shivering veil. And I see it. The café. Mira’s café. The pale blue awning wet and dark, the light spilling through the rain-streaked glass. Warm. Bright. A memory. I push the door, the bell a faint, hollow chime. The warmth wraps around me, the scent of coffee thick and sweet, the soft hum of quiet voices. But I’m shaking. My fingers numb, my breath a faint, silver mist. “Kalina?” Her voice, warm, bright, always too bright. Mira’s smile, soft and wide, her hands already reaching for the jar. “Your usual?” I want to say no. I want to turn, to leave, to disappear into the mist. But I can’t. I stand there, the ache twisting, the rain clinging to my hair, my coat damp, heavy, pressing against my shoulders. “Kalina, you’re soaked. Sit, please.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, already reaching for a towel, her hands a soft blur, her voice a quiet, gentle hum. “I’ll bring you something warm.” I sit. The chair is soft, warm. Too warm. The ache twists, a knot beneath my ribs. The light is too bright, the warmth too thick. I press my hands against the table, the wet paper still crumpled in my fist, the ink smudged, the letters fading. Kalina. Kalina. Kalina. “Here.” Mira’s voice, soft, close. The cup warm against my fingers, the steam a thin, silver thread. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I almost laugh. Almost. But the sound dies, a faint, thin breath, caught in the cold knot in my chest. “I’m fine.” The lie slips out, sharp, hollow. “Are you?” Her eyes are dark, gentle, too gentle. She knows. She always knows. But she never says it. Just reaches for the jar, her fingers soft, warm, and she adds a cookie to the saucer. Always. Always a cookie. “Your magic cookie.” She smiles, a soft, bright smile. “It makes everything better.” It doesn’t. I want to say that. I want to tell her that the ache doesn’t go away, that the shadows don’t leave, that the mist is always there, pressing, twisting. But I don’t. I just hold the cup, the warmth sinking into my fingers, the ache tightening, pressing. “I thought I saw someone,” I whisper, the words slipping out, tangled, raw. “Someone who shouldn’t be here.” “Who?” I shake my head, the ache a slow, sharp twist. “No one. It was nothing.” But her eyes stay, soft, watching, a quiet shadow of concern. And I hate it. I hate the way she looks at me,
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