What Sleeps – Extrait 11
the way her kindness presses, warm and heavy, like a blanket I can’t shake off. “I’m fine,” I whisper again, my fingers tightening around the cup, the heat pressing against my palm. “Kalina…” “I’m fine.” Louder this time, sharp, too sharp. A crack. A fracture. And I see it—her smile fading, her fingers pulling back, the soft light in her eyes dimming. “Okay,” she whispers, turning, her voice too soft, too distant. “Okay.” I watch her go, the warmth slipping away, the light too bright, too thick. I stare at the cookie, the thin, pale circle resting against the saucer, the steam curling, twisting, fading. I should say something. I should apologize. But the ache is too sharp, the cold too thick. I sip the coffee, the warmth pressing against my lips, bitter, too bitter. I think of the letter. His name. My name. Twisting around me. A ghost. A curse. I grab the cookie, the soft, crumbly sweetness pressing against my teeth. It tastes like sugar and nothing. Like warmth that never reaches. Like a smile that never stays. The door chimes, a faint, soft ring. I look up, the rain twisting against the glass, the mist thick, pale, pressing against the window. And I see it. A figure. Dark, just beyond the glass, a shadow pressed against the pale light. Watching. My breath catches, the ache twisting. My fingers tighten around the cup, the warmth seeping away. “Kalina?” Mira’s voice, distant, fading. “Are you…?” But I stand, the chair scraping against the floor, the ache a knife twisting, sharp, cold. I push the door, the cold air pressing against me, the mist a damp, pale shroud. But the figure is gone. Just mist. Just rain. Just shadows. I stand there, the ache twisting, the cold pressing against me, the rain clinging to my skin. My fingers are numb, my breath sharp, thin. But I feel it. The eyes. Watching. Always watching. Andrei. My chest is too tight, my breath too thin, the ache twisting, a knife against my ribs. I turn, walking, running, the rain a faint, steady whisper, the city a pale, shivering ghost. And I whisper his name again. Andrei. But the mist doesn’t answer. And I’m just a shadow. A name. A ghost. Chapter 9: The Shoes Outside Apartment 12B I walk. I don’t run. I should. I should run. But I don’t. My feet press against the wet stone, the mist curling around me, the pale light trembling, the ache twisting, sharp and cold. The rain is a thin, silver thread, a soft whisper against the glass, against the iron railing, against my skin. I feel it, cold, sharp, pressing against my cheeks, my hands, but I don’t stop. I don’t think. I just walk. I see the street. The pale, slick cobblestones, the dark, empty windows, the sickly glow of the streetlights fading into the mist. I walk. My feet splash against the puddles, the cold pressing against me, the ache twisting, pressing. My breath is sharp, thin, too fast, tearing at my throat. My fingers are white, stiff, my nails digging into my palms. I taste copper. I taste rain. I taste fear. Her face is there. The old woman. Her face, pale, twisted, her eyes dark, empty, staring at nothing. Her fingers twitching, her voice a faint, thin whisper. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” I shouldn’t have left her. I should have done something. I should have called someone. But I didn’t. I just walked. Just left her there, her fingers pale, her breath fading, the dark stains spreading, curling around her. I’m a coward. I’m nothing. I’m nothing but a ghost, a shadow, a name twisted around me like a curse. I turn a corner, the mist thick, pressing, the rain a soft, steady whisper. My chest is tight, the ache twisting, pressing against my ribs. I lean against the wall, the cold seeping through my coat, the wet stone pressing against my back. Breathe. Breathe. But I can’t. The air is thick, sharp, the cold pressing, twisting. My breath is thin, too thin, a faint, sharp
⬅️ Extrait prĂ©cĂ©dent | Extrait suivant ➡️
đź”– Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 11
