What Sleeps – Extrait 8
bars. I turn, spinning, trying to catch a glimpse, a trace, a whisper of movement. But there’s nothing. Just the quiet, the damp, the empty silence. I lean against the railing, my fingers tight against the cold metal, my chest heaving. The mist wraps around me, pressing against my skin, against my throat. I close my eyes, my breath catching, the ache turning to something sharp, something I can’t swallow. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. But it felt like him. It felt like the way he used to leave, silent, slipping away without a sound, just a shadow fading at the edge of my sight. I press my forehead against the cold iron, the damp seeping into my hair, the mist clinging to my skin. My fingers are white, numb, gripping the railing like it’s the only solid thing left. “I’m sorry…” I whisper, but I don’t know who I’m saying it to. And then I hear it—soft, faint, a whisper of movement. Footsteps, just at the edge of the mist, slow, deliberate, coming closer. My breath catches, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Hello?” My voice is too small, swallowed by the cold air. No answer. But the footsteps don’t stop. They draw closer, a slow, rhythmic echo against the wet stone. I turn, the mist parting, the pale glow of the streetlights spilling through. And I see him—another shadow, this one closer, sharper. Not fading. Not a ghost. A man, his coat wrapped tight around him, his hat pulled low, his steps steady. He’s walking towards me, his face hidden in shadow, but his shape clear, solid. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. My fingers tighten against the railing, the metal digging into my skin. He’s closer now, his steps slow, deliberate. He passes beneath the streetlight, the pale glow catching his face. Not him. Someone else. A stranger. An old man with a grey beard, his eyes lost in shadow, his lips a thin, pale line. But his eyes shift, catching mine, a faint, distant recognition flickering in his gaze. And then he nods, a slow, almost solemn gesture, and walks past me, his footsteps fading into the mist. I stand there, the cold pressing against me, the ache twisting, a thin, hollow knot. I turn, staring at the empty bridge, the mist curling around the iron bars, the shadows pooling beneath the streetlights. He’s gone. The shadow. The figure. The man I thought I saw. Gone, swallowed by the pale, endless fog. But the ache stays. The cold knot that won’t let go. I turn away, my steps slow, my fingers brushing against the cold iron railing. I walk, the mist following, the streetlights a pale, trembling glow that fades behind me. I don’t know where I’m going. I never do. But I keep moving, the city melting around me, the mist twisting between the buildings. And somewhere in the quiet, I hear it again—a faint, rhythmic creak. A door swinging on old hinges. A whisper of something I can’t name. I don’t look back. Chapter 7: Three Steps Past the Tram Line The tram rattles by, a slow, grumbling beast of metal and light, its windows streaked with rain, faces blurring behind the glass. I stand at the corner, the cold pressing against me, the mist curling around the yellow glow of the streetlights. I should go home. I know that. But the ache in my chest won’t let me. I don’t want to be alone with it, don’t want to feel the cold press in, the silence stretching too far. So I stand there, watching the tram roll past, the wet tracks gleaming beneath the pale light. A faint hiss, the hum of electricity, the whisper of voices trapped behind the glass. And then it’s gone, swallowed by the mist, the street falling quiet again. I walk. My feet trace old paths, the wet cobblestones slick beneath my shoes. The city is a pale, shivering maze, the mist twisting between the buildings, the lights a faint, trembling glow. I don’t know where I’m going. But I keep moving, the ache in my chest twisting, the cold air
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đź”– Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 8
