What Sleeps – Extrait 12
thread. I think of her face. Her fingers. The dark stains curling around her like shadows. I think of her voice, a faint, dying whisper. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” Tell who? Who was she talking about? Who should I tell? What should I say? Andrei. His name slips out, a whisper, sharp, thin. His name, twisting around me, a ghost, a shadow. It’s always him. Always his name. Always the ache that never leaves. But it can’t be him. It’s not him. It’s just the mist, just the rain, just the ache twisting beneath my chest. I close my eyes, the darkness pressing, the ache a slow, sharp twist. I want to go home. I want to sleep. I want to forget. But I can’t. The cold won’t leave. The ache won’t let go. Her face is there, her voice a faint, shivering thread. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” I push away from the wall, the rain pressing against my face, the mist thick, pale, pressing. I walk. I don’t know where. I don’t care. I just need to move. Need to breathe. Need to forget. But I can’t. My feet trace old paths, the streetlights a faint, sickly glow, the city a pale, shivering ghost. I turn a corner, another, the ache twisting, sharp, tight. My breath is too thin, too fast, tearing at my throat. And then I see it. The café. Mira’s café. The pale blue awning, wet and dark, the light spilling through the rain-streaked glass. Warm. Bright. A memory. I push the door, the bell a faint, hollow chime. The warmth wraps around me, the scent of coffee thick and sweet, the soft hum of quiet voices. But I’m shaking. My fingers numb, my breath a faint, silver mist. “Kalina?” Her voice, warm, bright, too bright. Mira’s smile, a soft, gentle light. “Are you okay?” No. No, I’m not. But I can’t say that. I can’t say anything. The ache is too sharp, the cold too thick, pressing. “I just… I just need to sit,” I whisper, my voice too thin, too sharp. “Of course. Sit. I’ll get you something warm.” She’s already moving, her hands a soft blur, her voice a quiet, gentle hum. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I almost laugh. Almost. But the sound dies, a faint, thin breath, caught in the cold knot in my chest. I sit, the chair warm, too warm. The ache twists, pressing, sharp. I press my hands against the table, my fingers white, numb, shaking. Mira brings the cup, the steam a thin, silver thread, the warmth pressing against my fingers. But I don’t drink. I just stare at it, the ache twisting, the cold pressing. “Kalina…?” Her voice, soft, close, too close. “What happened?” “I don’t know.” The words slip out, tangled, raw. “I… I saw her. She was there. But she’s gone. And I…” “Who?” Mira leans closer, her eyes dark, gentle, worried. “Kalina, you’re not making sense.” “I saw her.” My voice is too thin, too sharp, cracking. “The old woman. She… she’s gone.” “Gone?” Mira’s fingers brush against mine, warm, soft. “Kalina, what do you mean?” “She’s dead.” The words slip out, sharp, bitter, a knife. “She’s dead. She died. And I just… I left.” Mira’s hand tightens, her eyes wide, the warmth pressing, her voice a soft, desperate whisper. “Kalina, you have to tell someone. You have to—” “No.” My voice is too loud, sharp, cracking. “No. I can’t. I can’t. I don’t… I don’t know what to do.” “Kalina…” “She told me… she told me to tell him. To tell him she’s sorry.” The ache twists, sharp, tight, pressing against my ribs. “But I don’t know who. I don’t know who…” “Tell who? Who is she talking about?” “I don’t know.” My voice is too thin, too fast. “I don’t know.” Mira’s fingers tighten, her voice a faint, shivering thread. “Kalina… You’re shaking.” “I can’t… I can’t…” The ache is too sharp, the cold too thick. “I don’t… I don’t…” “Breathe.” Mira’s voice, calm, warm, pressing. “Breathe, Kalina. You’re okay. You’re safe. Just breathe.” But I can’t. The ache won’t leave. The cold won’t let go. Her face is there, her voice a faint, dying
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🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 12
