What Sleeps – Extrait 13
whisper. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” Andrei. The ache is too sharp. The cold is too thick. I pull away, the warmth slipping, the mist pressing against the window, the rain a thin, silver thread. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who to tell. I don’t know who she was. But she knew me. Or she knew something. And now she’s gone. Chapter 10: November in the Bathtub Kalina sat in the bathtub, the water lukewarm, a faint ripple shivering across the surface. The steam had faded, curling into the shadows of the small, cracked-tile bathroom. The ceiling was yellowed with age, a faint cobweb swaying gently in the corner, caught in the slow, invisible breath of the room. She leaned back, the porcelain cool against her shoulders, her knees drawn up, the tips of her toes just breaking the surface. She stared at them, pale and distorted beneath the water, a faint blur of her own reflection wavering. Somewhere beyond the thin walls, the city murmured—a low, distant hum, rain tapping against the window like a quiet, patient visitor. But here, in the steam and silence, time seemed to hold its breath. She was alone. Almost alone. Because the letter was there, folded neatly on the sink, the pale blue paper slightly wrinkled, the ink faint, blurred in places. Her name. Over and over. Kalina. Kalina. Kalina. His handwriting. The shape of the letters, the way the K twisted, the slant of the Ls, the slight hesitation in the curve of the A. She knew it. Knew it better than she knew her own. But he was gone. Not dead. Just gone. A door that had closed without a sound. A name whispered and then forgotten. Or maybe not forgotten. Maybe she was the one who was forgotten, drifting through the quiet, watching the mist press against the glass. The water rippled again, a faint, slow pulse, a cold tendril curling around her ankle. She stared at it, her reflection wavering, her own face a pale, twisted shadow beneath the surface. She thought of the old woman. The pale, reaching fingers. The dark stains spreading across the cold, wet floor. The voice, a faint, dying whisper. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” But who? Who was she talking about? Who was she? Kalina’s fingers drifted beneath the surface, the water warm against her skin, the ache a slow, hollow knot in her chest. She tried to breathe, but the air felt thick, too thick, pressing against her throat. He would know. He would have known. He always knew. He saw things she couldn’t see, heard whispers she couldn’t hear. Even when he didn’t say anything, she felt it. The weight of his silence, the way it pressed against the air. But he was gone. The old woman was gone too. A ghost. A shadow slipping through the mist, a faint whisper fading into the cold. But she knew something. Knew her. Or knew someone. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” Her name. The letter. The handwriting she couldn’t forget, twisting around her like a question, a ghost. Andrei. She whispered it, a faint, thin breath, the word rippling across the water, fading into the steam. He had always been a ghost. Even when he was there. A shadow leaning against the balcony, a cigarette glowing like a dying star, his voice a low, soft hum that never rose, never cracked, always quiet, always watching. And then he was gone. Kalina leaned forward, her knees pressing against her chest, her fingers tracing the surface of the water. She thought of the letter, the ink faint, her name twisting across the pale blue paper. She thought of the old woman, her voice a faint, dying thread. She closed her eyes, the ache pressing, twisting, the steam a thin, damp breath against her face. Who was she? Who was she speaking to? Her fingers trailed beneath the surface, pale shapes twisting, curling, her reflection a dark blur. Her phone buzzed, a faint hum against the sink, the screen glowing, a name she didn’t want to see. Ina. She let it
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