What Sleeps – Extrait 2
the cold or the name on the envelope. Kalina. Just that. No surname. No address. Just Kalina. I take it inside, locking the door behind me, as if that could keep the rest of the world out. My kitchen is cold, the window still misted from the morning fog. The letter trembles in my hand, but I can’t bring myself to open it. Not yet. Instead, I make coffee. The bitter scent rises like something solid, warming the air. The letter rests on the kitchen table, a pale spot against the dark wood. I keep glancing at it, waiting for it to move, to speak, to vanish. But it stays, silent and almost ghostly. It’s not his handwriting. I know that. But for a moment, I imagined it was. The loops, the slants—it’s close. So close.
And now I’m thinking of him again, of the last time I saw him, of the way he stood in the doorway, a shadow with too many words and none of them spoken. I told myself I’d forgotten. That I’d moved on. That I didn’t even care. And maybe that’s true most days. But not today. Today, there’s this letter. A knock at the door startles me, the mug slipping from my grip. I catch it, burning my fingers, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Who knocks anymore? Everyone calls. Or texts. Or forgets.
But there’s another knock, quieter this time. Hesitant. I place the mug down and walk to the door, the letter still burning in my mind. When I look through the peephole, all I see is the shadow of someone leaning close. My heart stutters, then races. I hesitate, hand on the doorknob, caught between curiosity and caution. But when I open it, the hallway is empty. Just the flickering light and the faint scent of damp stone. A gust of cold air slips past me, and I shiver. I close the door, the click of the lock echoing too loudly in the silence. The letter waits on the table, still unopened. The coffee’s gone cold, the steam fading to nothing. And I stand there, staring at the letter, wondering who knew my name and what they wanted me to remember.
Chapter 3:
We Were Two on the Balcony I was fourteen the first time I truly noticed the sky. Not the usual way—not the pale blue expanse that sat over the city like a tired sheet, but the bruised purple of a storm crawling toward us from the east. I was standing on the balcony, the one with the peeling green paint and the rusted railing that trembled if you leaned too hard. My father was beside me, smoking a cigarette. The smoke curled between us, twisting in the rising wind.
“You see it?” he asked, his voice low, almost drowned by the distant rumble of thunder. “I see the storm.” “No,” he said, leaning forward, the cigarette glowing like a tiny ember against the gloom. “Not the storm. The light. The way it bends.” I squinted, but all I saw were dark clouds and silver flashes, the kind that left echoes on the inside of your eyes. “I don’t…” But he laughed, a soft, warm sound that seemed to melt into the air. “Look again. Don’t try to see. Just… let it happen.”
And then I saw it—the way the light danced along the edges of the clouds, silver turning gold, gold turning violet. A shifting, trembling glow, as if the sky itself was trying to speak. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered. “It is,” he said. “But it’s more than that. It’s everything trying to become something else. That’s what storms are.” He flicked the cigarette over the railing, a tiny ember spiraling down to the wet pavement below. For a moment, I thought it might burn through, leave a mark, something permanent. But it vanished, swallowed by the shadows. He leaned on the railing, staring out at the sky, his face unreadable. I wanted to ask him something—anything. Why do you stay so quiet? Why do you always look like you’re somewhere else? Why do you never say what you mean? But I didn’t ask. I just stood beside him, watching the storm come closer, the air growing thick with the scent of
🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 2
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