What Sleeps – Extrait 21
voice a faint, thin whisper. “Kalina, what happened?” Mira leaned closer, her fingers brushing against Kalina’s hand, warm, soft. “You’re shaking.” “I saw him,” Kalina whispered, her eyes tracing the rain twisting against the glass. “I saw him again.” “Who?” “I don’t know. But he knows me.” Her fingers tightened against the cup, the warmth pressing against her palms. “He knows about… everything. About her.” “Her? The old woman?” “Yes.” Kalina’s breath was too fast, too thin, tearing at her chest. “And he said… he said I’m part of it now. Part of what she said. Part of… whatever this is.” “Kalina, please, you’re not making sense.” Mira’s voice was soft, a faint, quiet hum. “Who was he? What did he say?” “He said… he said I shouldn’t have come. That I shouldn’t know.” Her voice was a faint, thin thread. “But I don’t know anything. I don’t know who she was. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know…” “Then you need to leave it alone.” Mira’s voice was sharp now, a crack, a fracture. “If you don’t know… maybe it’s better that way.” “I can’t leave it.” Kalina’s voice was too thin, too fast. “I can’t… I have to know. I have to know who she was. Who he is. Why she died.” “Kalina, you’re not—” The bell chimed, a faint, hollow ring. The door swung open, the cold air rushing in, the rain a thin, silver thread against the pale, warm light. And a figure stepped in. Tall. Dark coat, the rain twisting against the wet fabric. A pale face, shadowed beneath the brim of a hat. Kalina’s breath caught, the ache twisting, sharp, pressing against her chest. Her fingers tightened against the cup, her pulse too loud, too fast. The man’s eyes caught hers, dark, sharp, a faint, silver gleam beneath the shadow. And he smiled. Just slightly. A faint, pale curve. “Kalina?” Mira’s voice was a faint, distant hum. “Are you okay?” But Kalina didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. The man’s eyes stayed on hers, a calm, cold gaze. He stepped forward, his shoes tapping against the wet tiles, his coat a dark, twisting shadow beneath the pale light. And then he turned. Walked past. His hand brushed against the counter, his fingers pale, thin, leaving a faint, wet smear against the glass. Mira didn’t see. Didn’t notice. Just turned, her hands moving, her voice a soft, gentle hum. But Kalina saw. Saw the faint, wet smear on the glass. Saw the pale, thin fingers. Saw the dark, twisting shadow slipping between the tables. And then he was gone. Out the back. The bell chimed, a faint, hollow ring. Her breath was sharp, thin, tearing at her chest. Her pulse was a slow, heavy drumbeat. Mira turned, her smile a soft, gentle light. “Kalina? What’s wrong?” But Kalina didn’t answer. Didn’t breathe. Her fingers were white, stiff, the ache a slow, sharp twist beneath her ribs. Because the smear was still there, a faint, wet streak against the glass. And beneath it, traced in pale, thin letters, a single word. A name. Andrei. Chapter 16: The Weight of Unspoken Names Kalina watched the rain trace its silver threads across the glass, each drop a whispered secret that twisted, melted, and disappeared. Outside, the mist curled between the buildings, a pale, shifting veil that hid the world beyond. The city was a blurred shadow, a quiet, distant hum that seemed to float just beyond her reach. She thought of her childhood, of the long, rainy afternoons when she would sit by the window, watching the world turn grey, listening to the soft, steady tap of rain against the glass. She would trace the drops with her finger, follow their twisting paths as they melted together, a pale, silver river that slipped down into nothing. Andrei had always said she lived too much in her thoughts. That she spent too much time watching, waiting, letting the world press against her without ever stepping out into it. He would laugh, that quiet, soft
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