What Sleeps – Extrait 7
stumbling towards the stairwell. Her shadow melts into the darkness, her shawl slipping from her shoulder, a pale thread trailing behind her. I stand there, the silence crashing back in, the cold knot twisting beneath my ribs. My breath comes fast, sharp, but I don’t move. Don’t chase her. Don’t call out. The hallway is empty again, just shadows and the faint hum of the flickering light. But I see it. On the floor. A dark, wet smear, a thin, twisted line that she left behind. It trails towards the stairs, a broken thread that fades into shadow. Blood. Or something that looks like it. I can’t stand here. I can’t stay. I turn, my hands shaking, fumbling with the keys, the lock clicking open. I slip inside, slam the door, leaning against it, the cold wood pressing against my back. My heart pounds, too loud, too fast. My fingers ache, white and stiff. I want to think, want to understand, but all I see is her face, those dark eyes, those stained fingers reaching for me. I grab my phone, my fingers numb against the screen. I type a message to Ina, but the words blur. “Someone… something…” I erase it. Type again. “I’m fine. Just… needed some air.” I send it. My hands are still shaking. The window is there, the scratches thin and sharp, and I pull the curtains, blocking it out, blocking out the night, the shadows, the silence pressing in. But I can’t block out her face. Her fingers. That cold, empty look in her eyes. And the question that gnaws at me, sharp as those scratches— What was she trying to say? Chapter 6: Ina’s Kitchen Is Always Clean I stand there, the mist curling around me, the figure already fading, swallowed by pale shadows. My heart is a dull, heavy drumbeat, each breath a cold ache in my chest. But I move. My feet press against the wet cobblestones, the mist wrapping around my ankles, my shoes slipping, but I don’t stop. I follow the shadow, the faint outline swaying, a smear of darkness against the pale fog. “Wait!” My voice is swallowed by the mist, the word dissolving like smoke. But I push forward, my hands brushing against the cold iron railing of the old bridge, the metal slick beneath my fingers. The figure is ahead, just beyond the mist, a faint, shifting shape. Tall, thin, leaning—just like him. Just like the way he used to stand, his shoulder against the balcony railing, his eyes on the sky, always on something I couldn’t see. “Dad!” The word slips out before I can stop it, a thin, sharp breath that vanishes in the fog. But the figure doesn’t turn. Doesn’t pause. It moves, slow, steady, slipping through the mist like a ghost. I feel the ache in my chest twist, the cold pressing against me, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I push through the mist, the world blurring, the pale streetlights melting into faint, silver smears. My feet splash against puddles, the cold water seeping through my shoes, but I don’t care. I reach out, my fingers grasping at the empty air, the shadow always just out of reach. And then it stops. A faint, shivering outline, barely visible, just at the edge of the bridge. It stands there, still, silent. I stumble forward, the mist pressing against me, my breath sharp and thin. “Please…” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Please, is it you? Are you—” But the mist shifts, a gust of wind pressing against me, and the shadow moves. It leans, sways, and then steps back, fading, slipping behind the pale curtain of fog. “No!” I reach out, my fingers grasping at nothing, the cold air biting against my skin. “Wait, please!” I push forward, the mist thickening, the air pressing against me, a heavy, damp weight. My feet slip against the wet stone, the railing cold beneath my fingers. I hear my breath, sharp, panicked, the ache in my chest twisting. The shadow is gone. Only the mist remains, pale and endless, stretching across the bridge, twisting between the iron
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đź”– Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 7
