wet earth and something else—something sharp, metallic, electric. “I used to think that everything we see is solid,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But even the light moves. Even the air. Even us.” I didn’t understand. Not then. Not really. But I nodded, because sometimes that was enough for him. Just to know I was listening. The rain came in sudden, cold slashes, and he laughed, pulling me back inside, slamming the door against the wind. We stood there, dripping, my hair sticking to my face, his shoulders shaking with laughter. A rare sound. A sound I would learn to miss. But that was then. And now the balcony is just a memory. A place in my mind, a place I can’t quite reach. I see the same storm sometimes—silver and violet, dancing along the edge of clouds. But I’m alone when I watch it. The cigarette is mine now, the smoke curling around me like a ghost I can’t touch. The light still bends. But I don’t see it the way I did. Not with him beside me. I try to remember his voice. His laugh. The way he smelled faintly of smoke and rain. But memory is a storm too, isn’t it? Always moving, always changing. And just like that cigarette, I wonder if I’ll vanish too, swallowed by the shadows. But the storm brings something else with it—an ache, a longing. A need to ask the questions I never did. Why did he leave? Or did I leave first? Or was it both, a quiet departure like smoke fading into the cold? I see him sometimes, in other men on the street. A turn of the head, a gesture, a way of leaning against a railing with too much weight on one shoulder. And I feel a pull—a tightness in my chest. An urge to run, to shout, to catch up to a ghost. Once, I did. I followed a man who looked like him through the crowded square near the old opera house. My heart hammered, each step a desperate promise. But when he turned, it wasn’t him. It was never him. Maybe that’s why I watch the sky. Because it changes, but it never leaves. Because it reminds me of that balcony, of that quiet rain, of that laughter that I heard too little and now hear too often in my memory. The city moves around me, indifferent. People rush through rain-soaked streets, holding newspapers over their heads, shouting to each other over the thunder. But I stand still, watching, waiting for a flash of light, for a voice I no longer know. I light a cigarette, just like he did. The smoke curls in the air, twisting, dancing. But there’s no one beside me this time. Just the empty street, the whisper of rain, the ghost of a storm. And I wonder—if he ever thinks of me, standing alone on a balcony, watching a sky that never stays the same.
Chapter 4: Rado’s Rakia
The smell of rakia hits me before I even knock—sharp, sweet, with a burn that sits heavy in the air. It seeps through the door like a secret, and I wonder how much he’s brewed this time. Rado is a fixture in this building. The kind of old man you never really notice until you realize he’s always been there—sitting on the stairs, his thick hands twisting a cigarette, his grizzled face lost in the shadow of his flat cap. I don’t know his last name, but no one does. Just Rado. I knock, and the door opens almost immediately, as if he was waiting. “Kalina!” he says, his voice a rumble, his breath already tinged with that sweet burn. “Come in, come in. You’re just in time.” His flat is a chaos of old furniture, thick rugs, and the faint scent of dust that never seems to leave these walls. But the kitchen—that’s where the magic is. Copper stills glint in the pale light, bottles lined up on the counter, some full, some half-empty, all amber like liquid sunlight. “You’ve been busy,” I say, trying to keep the smile out of my voice. “I’m an old man. What else do I have?” He waves me to a chair, already pouring two glasses. “Besides, this batch… This batch is special.
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đź”– Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 3
