What Sleeps – Extrait 22
laugh that never rose, never broke, just drifted like smoke. “You’re like a ghost that doesn’t know it’s gone,” he whispered once, his voice a faint, quiet hum. “Always watching. Never touching.” And she had laughed, too. Because it was easier to laugh. Easier to pretend that his words didn’t slip beneath her skin, didn’t twist around her like a shadow she couldn’t shake. But he was wrong. She wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts were memories. Ghosts were shadows of things that had already ended. But she was still here. Still caught between the pale, trembling light of the café and the mist that twisted beyond the glass. Still caught between his name pressed against the wet window and the ache that wouldn’t leave her chest. Her fingers traced the edge of the cup, the warmth a faint, slow pulse against her skin. The steam curled, twisted, a thin, silver thread that faded into the dark. But the ache stayed. The ache never left. Because she didn’t know who she was without it. Didn’t know who she was without his name, without the shadows that twisted around her, without the quiet, pressing weight of things left unsaid. She thought of the letter. The pale blue paper, her name written again and again, the ink faint, smudged, twisted. Kalina. Kalina. Kalina. Andrei. She thought of the old woman, her voice a faint, dying whisper. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” But who was she? Who was he? And who was the man in the shadows, the man who whispered that she shouldn’t have come, that she shouldn’t know? Her fingers tightened around the cup, the warmth pressing against her skin, the ache a slow, steady pulse beneath her ribs. She remembered the first time she saw Andrei. A grey, rainy morning, the mist a pale, silver curtain that wrapped around the city, the wet cobblestones shining beneath the pale, sickly light of the streetlamps. He had been leaning against the iron railing of the old bridge, a cigarette pressed between his fingers, his face turned towards the sky. She hadn’t meant to speak. But the words slipped out, soft, a faint, thin thread. “Waiting for something?” And he had turned, his eyes dark, sharp, a faint, silver gleam beneath the pale, misted light. “Aren’t we all?” She didn’t know why she stayed. Didn’t know why she walked closer, why she stood beside him, watching the mist twist, watching the rain melt against the river, watching the world dissolve into a pale, shivering ghost. But she did. And he didn’t leave. Just stood there, his voice a quiet, calm hum, his words drifting like smoke. And now he was gone. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he never really left. Maybe he was still here, a shadow pressed against the mist, a name whispered in the rain. Her fingers pressed against the glass, tracing the faint, wet smear, the letters twisted, pale, a name written in a whisper. Andrei. Did he know? Did he understand? Was he just another ghost, another shadow caught between the mist and the rain? The ache twisted, sharp, a slow, hollow knot beneath her ribs. She didn’t know who she was without it. Didn’t know how to breathe without that quiet, heavy weight pressing against her chest. But she needed to know. Needed to understand. Needed to see the shadows without letting them swallow her. Mira’s voice slipped through the quiet, a faint, gentle hum, her hands a soft, warm blur as she poured another cup of coffee for an old man by the counter. The café was a soft, golden glow, a warm, gentle pocket of light pressed against the dark, misted city. But Kalina was a shadow in the corner, a ghost caught between the warmth and the rain, her thoughts a tangled, twisting thread that wouldn’t let go. And then she saw it. A flicker of movement beyond the glass. A shadow. Pale, thin, slipping between the mist. Her heart tightened, the ache twisting, sharp, a knife buried beneath her chest. A figure. Tall. A dark coat
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🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 22
