What Sleeps – Extrait 29
it. A shape. A shadow slipping between the mist. Tall. Dark. A figure that twisted, melted, faded. Her fingers tightened against the wet wall, her breath a faint, sharp mist. The shadow moved, slow, steady, a dark shape that seemed to melt between the rain, that seemed to watch without watching. It stepped forward, the pale light catching a faint, sharp edge—a coat, wet, dark, the rain twisting against the soaked fabric. A face half-hidden in the shadow, a pale, thin curve of a smile that seemed to twist, melt, fade. Her chest tightened, the ache a sharp, twisting knot. “Who are you?” Silence. Just the rain. Just the faint, silver whisper that twisted between the mist. But the shadow stepped closer. Slow. Steady. Its face was pale, a faint, dark line twisting down one cheek, eyes sharp, empty, a faint, silver gleam beneath the brim of a hat. “I know you,” the voice whispered, soft, calm, a faint, cold breath that slipped between the rain. “No,” Kalina whispered, her voice too thin, too sharp. “No, you don’t.” “I do.” The shadow’s voice was a faint, calm hum. “I know what you’ve seen. I know what you heard.” “I don’t… I don’t understand.” Her breath was too thin, too fast, her fingers white, stiff against the wall. “I don’t know anything.” “Don’t you?” The shadow leaned closer, the pale light catching the faint, dark line of his face, a thin, twisted scar that traced his cheek. “Or are you just afraid to see?” Her pulse was too loud, too fast, the ache twisting, pressing. “Who are you?” “I’m no one.” His voice was calm, too calm. “Just a shadow. Just a name.” “Andrei?” Her voice was a faint, sharp whisper, a thread tangled in the rain. His smile twisted, faint, sharp, a pale curve that melted into the mist. “Is that what you want me to be?” “Who are you?” she whispered again, her voice a faint, desperate thread. “Why are you here? Why are you watching me?” “I’m not watching you.” His voice was calm, sharp. “You’re watching yourself. You’re chasing a shadow you don’t want to see.” “I don’t understand.” “Yes, you do.” He leaned closer, his voice a faint, cold breath that slipped against her cheek. “You know. You always knew.” “I don’t.” “You do.” His fingers brushed against the wet wall, a faint, pale touch. “But it’s easier to pretend. Easier to chase shadows than to see the truth.” “What truth?” “That you were never alone.” His voice was a faint, sharp whisper. “That the shadows never left. That the name you whisper is the same name that whispers back.” Her breath caught, the ache twisting, sharp, a knife buried beneath her chest. “Andrei…” But the shadow was gone. Melted into the mist, a faint, dark shape that twisted, slipped between the rain, swallowed by the pale, silver shroud. Her fingers were numb, white, stiff against the wall, her breath a sharp, thin thread that tore at her chest. The ache pressed, twisted, a slow, heavy knot beneath her ribs. And the door didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just stood there, a dark, twisted scar pressed against the wet stone. But his voice stayed. A faint, calm whisper tangled in the rain. “You were never alone.” Chapter 21: The Mirror That Knows Your Name Alexei was painting again. Always painting. The brush moved, slow, steady, a faint, trembling arc that twisted, melted, bled against the pale canvas. Blue. Always blue. But this time it was darker. Deeper. A thick, twisted shade that seemed to press against the light, that seemed to swallow the pale glow of the studio. Kalina stood in the doorway, her coat soaked, her hair dripping, her breath a faint, silver mist that twisted against the warm air. But she didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, the ache a slow, sharp knot beneath her ribs, her fingers white, stiff against the cold, damp fabric. Alexei didn’t turn. His fingers traced the edge of the canvas, his eyes sharp, focused, the
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