What Sleeps – Extrait 7

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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🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 7

What Sleeps – Extrait 6

What Sleeps – Extrait 6

presses in, thick and damp, like the rain that night. Like his voice, whispering— “I can’t… I can’t do this.” The window is just a window. The rain is just rain. The silence is just silence. But the cold knot in my chest doesn’t care. It tightens, twisting, pressing. And I think of him. I think of that look on his face, the way he broke, the way he tried to hide it. Was he running too? Was he trying to escape a silence that wouldn’t let go? Was he… hiding? I hear it again. The faint, rhythmic creak. The hallway? Or just the wind? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I step back, my shoulder brushing the wall, the cold seeping through my shirt. The window is just a window. But it feels like something else. Like something watching. I grab my phone, my fingers numb against the screen. The messages from Ina are still there, still unanswered. But I don’t text her. I don’t call. I stand there, breathing, waiting for the cold to fade, for the quiet to let go. But it doesn’t. The cold doesn’t fade. It presses in, thick and heavy, wrapping around me like a damp sheet. I can’t shake it. Can’t breathe it away. My eyes keep drifting to the window, to the faint scratches etched across the glass, thin and jagged, like something tried to claw its way in. But I need air. I need to move. I grab my coat, my keys, leaving the kitchen light on because the darkness feels too close, too heavy. The door clicks behind me, and I’m in the hallway, the cold concrete beneath my feet, the faint hum of the old light buzzing like a whisper. But the silence is here too, stretching between the walls, pressing against the dim, narrow corridor. My footsteps echo, too loud, too sharp. I glance down the hall, towards the stairs, the pale light pooling at the base. No one there. Just shadows, stretching and shivering beneath the flicker of the bulb. But there’s something else. A sound—soft, faint. A whisper of movement, like fabric brushing against the wall. I freeze, my breath caught in my chest. And then I see her. The old woman from the fifth floor. Or maybe it’s her. I’ve seen her before, in passing, a shadow wrapped in thick, grey shawls, her hair a thin silver cloud. But now she’s standing by the stairwell, just at the edge of the light, her back to me. She’s not moving. Not really. Just… swaying. Her shoulders rise and fall, a slow, shivering rhythm, like she’s breathing too fast. “Hello?” My voice is too loud, sharp against the quiet. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t answer. I take a step closer, the cold sinking into my bones. “Madame? Are you—” She stops. Her shoulders stiffen, the swaying ceases. A slow, creeping dread curls around me. And then she turns. Her face is a pale mask, hollow eyes dark and wet, her mouth a thin, cracked line. But it’s her hands that catch me—thin, clawed, pale against the darkness. And her fingers… her fingers are streaked with something dark, something that glistens in the pale light. “Are you alright?” I whisper, my voice too small. Her eyes meet mine, sharp and distant, like a bird’s, like something that sees but doesn’t know what it’s seeing. Her lips part, a faint, rasping breath escaping, and then she takes a step toward me. I step back, the cold seeping through me, the walls pressing in. “Madame… Do you need help?” Her fingers twitch, her mouth moving, but no words come out. Just a faint, dry whisper, a sound like leaves crumbling underfoot. And then she reaches out. Her fingers stretch towards me, slow, trembling, stained dark. I don’t move, can’t move. I feel the cold pressing against my skin, feel the ache in my chest tightening. Her hand hovers, inches from my face, her fingers clawed, desperate. And then— A door slams. Loud. Sharp. The echo ripples through the hallway, a crack of thunder in the silence. The old woman’s head jerks up, her eyes widening, and then she turns,

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🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 6

What Sleeps – Extrait 5

What Sleeps – Extrait 5

me, wet and restless. I want to run, but there’s nowhere to go. I want to forget, but there’s nothing but memory. The cold bites at my cheeks, and I shiver, pulling my coat tighter. I walk without knowing where, just trying to outrun something I can’t name. A tram rattles by, the pale yellow lights catching on the wet cobblestones. I watch it fade into the fog, swallowed by shadows. And in the distance, I see a balcony—another one, high above the street, light spilling out, a figure leaning against the railing. Just a shadow, but for a moment, I imagine it’s him. Watching. Waiting. But I don’t stop. I don’t call out. I just walk, letting the rain soak through, letting the cold chase me down. Chapter 5: Quiet Like Boiling Milk The kitchen is too small for two people. It always has been. But I remember a time when it didn’t feel that way. When it was crowded, yes, but warm. When the steam was just steam, and not something that crawled against my skin. I was twelve the first time I saw him lose his patience. Really lose it. It was raining, thick, heavy sheets of rain that beat against the windows, turning the sky to a dull, choking grey. My mother was gone—shopping, she said. But she never came back that night. And the phone rang and rang, her voice always going to that cold, empty click. I stood by the window, counting the drops as they traced their way down the glass, trying to follow them, trying to forget the knot in my stomach. Trying not to hear the sound of the cabinets slamming in the kitchen. “She’s late, that’s all,” he said, his voice low, rough. “Just late.” But he kept looking at the clock. Kept glancing at the door. His fingers drummed against the counter, a quiet, restless rhythm. And then, without warning, he grabbed the pot, the one she always used for soup, and hurled it against the wall. I jumped, the sound splitting the air, the metal ringing like a scream. I turned, saw him standing there, his shoulders heaving, his fists tight at his sides. And then he looked at me. His face twisted, something like anger, something like shame. He looked at the dent in the wall, at the pot crumpled on the floor. And then he whispered something, so faint I almost didn’t hear it. “I can’t… I can’t do this.” I didn’t understand then. I thought he meant the waiting, the rain, the silence. But now, standing in this quiet kitchen, the cold pressing against me, I think I understand. It wasn’t just the waiting. It was the not knowing. It was the silence that crept in, the questions that pressed against you like cold hands. It was the feeling of standing in a room too small, a room that couldn’t hold everything you felt. I close my eyes, the memory twisting around me, and I see him again—leaning against the counter, his face pale, his fingers tight around nothing. I wanted to go to him, to reach out, to say something. But I didn’t. I just stood there, watching, waiting for the silence to break. And then the door opened. My mother, dripping wet, her hair clinging to her face, her shoes squelching against the tiles. She smiled, a thin, tired smile. “Sorry, sorry. The tram—there was a delay.” But he didn’t answer. He just turned, his shoulders stiff, his steps heavy, the bedroom door slamming shut behind him. She looked at me, and I saw it—the confusion, the guilt, the ache she didn’t know how to name. And I smiled, because that’s what I did. Because that was easier. “It’s okay, Mom,” I said. “It’s okay.” But it wasn’t. Not really. The steam has faded now, the milk gone cold. I stand there, staring at the window, at the thin, jagged lines that cut across the glass. Scratch marks. Not just scratches. Marks that weren’t there before. A faint creak in the hallway. The slow, heavy sound of something moving. I take a step back, my fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. The silence

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🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 5

What Sleeps – Extrait 4

What Sleeps – Extrait 4 

For the cold nights. For memories.” He hands me a glass, and I watch the liquid catch the light, a slow swirl of gold. I’ve had his rakia before—too many times to count. It’s always strong, always sweet, and always just a little too much. But I sip anyway. Warmth spreads through my chest, a slow, steady burn that settles somewhere beneath my ribs. Rado watches me, his eyes sharp beneath his thick, grey eyebrows. “You’re quiet today,” he says. “More than usual.” “I didn’t think I was.” “You’re thinking of something you won’t say.” He grins, showing the gap in his front teeth. “It’s always the same with you. Your father was the same. Always a head full of storms.” My fingers tighten around the glass. “You knew him?” “Knew him? We drank together. We talked, when he talked.” Rado’s grin fades, his eyes going distant. “He wasn’t a man of many words. But when he spoke, you listened.” I don’t say anything. I can still hear his voice sometimes—the quiet, calm way he explained the sky, the smoke curling between us. But the more I try to remember, the more it blurs. And then I wonder if I’m remembering him, or just the way I thought he was. “You never ask about him,” Rado says, leaning back, his own glass already half empty. “Not like most would. You keep it locked up. Like he did.” “Maybe it’s easier that way.” “Is it?” I shrug, but even that feels like a lie. I take another sip, letting the warmth spread, trying to push the cold knot out of my chest. “Do you miss him?” I ask before I can stop myself. Rado’s smile softens, a sad, quiet thing. “We’re too old for that, Kalina. We don’t miss. We remember.” The silence stretches, broken only by the faint hum of the copper stills, the slow drip of something golden and strong pooling in a glass jar. Outside, the wind presses against the window, a whisper of rain tapping against the glass. “He talked about you sometimes,” Rado says suddenly, and I look up. “Not often. Not in a way you’d expect. But you were there, in his stories. Even when he didn’t say your name.” “What did he say?” “He said you saw the world differently. That you had a way of looking at things—like you were always trying to find the light.” Rado’s voice is softer now, a quiet echo. “He never said it, but he was proud. You could hear it. In the way he talked.” A lump rises in my throat, and I take another sip to burn it away. The warmth spreads, but it doesn’t reach the cold in my chest. “Did he… Did he say why he left?” Rado looks at me, the room suddenly too small, the air too thick. “No,” he says, after a long, heavy silence. “But sometimes… Sometimes not knowing is a kind of mercy.” I want to be angry at that. I want to shout, to demand an answer, to make sense of the ache that never really goes away. But I don’t. I just finish the rakia, the burn turning bitter in my mouth. “Drink with me,” Rado says, pouring another. “For old men and young women who ask too many questions.” But this time, I don’t drink. I stand, the warmth turning to a tight knot in my chest. I feel the walls pressing in, the faint smell of dust and alcohol suffocating. “I should go.” “Kalina…” “I’m fine. I just—thank you. For the drink. For… everything.” I turn before he can say anything else, the cold air of the hallway rushing around me like a gasp. I take the stairs two at a time, my shoes slapping against the worn stone, the shadows of the building stretching like long fingers. Outside, the rain is falling, a slow, silent mist that clings to everything. I stand in it, letting it chill my skin, letting it wash the burn away. Rado’s voice echoes in my mind. You were there, in his stories. Even when he didn’t say your name. But which stories? What did he say? What did he hide? And what am I not seeing? I start walking, the rain blurring the streetlights, turning them to pale ghosts. The city hums around

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🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 4

What Sleeps – Extrait 3

What Sleeps – Extrait 3 

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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🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 3

What Sleeps – Extrait 2

What Sleeps – Extrait 2

the cold or the name on the envelope. Kalina. Just that. No surname. No address. Just Kalina. I take it inside, locking the door behind me, as if that could keep the rest of the world out. My kitchen is cold, the window still misted from the morning fog. The letter trembles in my hand, but I can’t bring myself to open it. Not yet. Instead, I make coffee. The bitter scent rises like something solid, warming the air. The letter rests on the kitchen table, a pale spot against the dark wood. I keep glancing at it, waiting for it to move, to speak, to vanish. But it stays, silent and almost ghostly. It’s not his handwriting. I know that. But for a moment, I imagined it was. The loops, the slants—it’s close. So close. 

And now I’m thinking of him again, of the last time I saw him, of the way he stood in the doorway, a shadow with too many words and none of them spoken. I told myself I’d forgotten. That I’d moved on. That I didn’t even care. And maybe that’s true most days. But not today. Today, there’s this letter. A knock at the door startles me, the mug slipping from my grip. I catch it, burning my fingers, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Who knocks anymore? Everyone calls. Or texts. Or forgets. 

But there’s another knock, quieter this time. Hesitant. I place the mug down and walk to the door, the letter still burning in my mind. When I look through the peephole, all I see is the shadow of someone leaning close. My heart stutters, then races. I hesitate, hand on the doorknob, caught between curiosity and caution. But when I open it, the hallway is empty. Just the flickering light and the faint scent of damp stone. A gust of cold air slips past me, and I shiver. I close the door, the click of the lock echoing too loudly in the silence. The letter waits on the table, still unopened. The coffee’s gone cold, the steam fading to nothing. And I stand there, staring at the letter, wondering who knew my name and what they wanted me to remember. 

Chapter 3: 

We Were Two on the Balcony I was fourteen the first time I truly noticed the sky. Not the usual way—not the pale blue expanse that sat over the city like a tired sheet, but the bruised purple of a storm crawling toward us from the east. I was standing on the balcony, the one with the peeling green paint and the rusted railing that trembled if you leaned too hard. My father was beside me, smoking a cigarette. The smoke curled between us, twisting in the rising wind. 

“You see it?” he asked, his voice low, almost drowned by the distant rumble of thunder. “I see the storm.” “No,” he said, leaning forward, the cigarette glowing like a tiny ember against the gloom. “Not the storm. The light. The way it bends.” I squinted, but all I saw were dark clouds and silver flashes, the kind that left echoes on the inside of your eyes. “I don’t…” But he laughed, a soft, warm sound that seemed to melt into the air. “Look again. Don’t try to see. Just… let it happen.”

And then I saw it—the way the light danced along the edges of the clouds, silver turning gold, gold turning violet. A shifting, trembling glow, as if the sky itself was trying to speak. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered. “It is,” he said. “But it’s more than that. It’s everything trying to become something else. That’s what storms are.” He flicked the cigarette over the railing, a tiny ember spiraling down to the wet pavement below. For a moment, I thought it might burn through, leave a mark, something permanent. But it vanished, swallowed by the shadows. He leaned on the railing, staring out at the sky, his face unreadable. I wanted to ask him something—anything. Why do you stay so quiet? Why do you always look like you’re somewhere else? Why do you never say what you mean? But I didn’t ask. I just stood beside him, watching the storm come closer, the air growing thick with the scent of

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🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 2

What Sleeps – Extrait 1

What Sleeps – Extrait 1 

What Sleeps Beneath the Door Chapter 1: 

The Window Opposite Mine The window opposite mine is always half-open, even in winter. Frost clings to the glass, a delicate lace that fades by noon, but the window stays cracked, as if the air inside is too thick, too heavy to breathe. I don’t know who lives there. Not really. Sometimes I see a figure—a silhouette leaning, pausing, like someone looking for a lost thought. Once, a flash of silver hair, and I imagined an old woman. But it could be anyone. The light is always soft, the kind that turns faces to shadows. I watch the window because it reminds me of something I can’t name. Maybe it’s the silence, the way it breathes with me. Or maybe it’s because in this building, with its echoing corridors and chipped tile floors, silence has a way of telling stories. My own window is clear, spotless, but it shows nothing. Just the street below, cracked asphalt, a leaning lamppost with a flickering bulb. Nothing changes there, except the seasons. And yet I keep looking. 

Maybe because if you watch long enough, everything begins to move. Even the stillness. I was ten when my father taught me that. We were on the balcony of our old flat, the one with the peeling green paint and the railing that trembled if you leaned too hard. He told me to look—really look—at the sky. And I did. At first, it was just blue, a wide empty blue. But then I saw it—the way the clouds stretched, the tiny movements, the slow dance of light and shadow. “Nothing is still,” he’d said, his voice a low whisper against the wind. “Even silence moves. Even shadows.” I still think about that. About him. About how he saw the world, as something restless beneath the surface. I wonder if he saw me that way too—restless, even when I seemed calm. 

He’s gone now. Not dead, just… gone. A door that closed without a sound. A window that never opened again. And I’m here, watching this other window, searching for something that doesn’t have a name. Across the street, the figure moves again. This time, a hand reaches out, draws the curtain slightly. Just a fraction. But it’s enough. A shift in the shadows, a breath caught between the glass and the cold. I lean forward, waiting. But the curtain falls still, and the light behind it dims. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My own window reflects my face now, pale and ghostly, a whisper of someone half-forgotten. A door slams somewhere down the hall, a distant echo. I pull away from the glass, letting the street settle back into its empty hum. My phone vibrates—Ina, asking if I’m free tonight. I’m not. Or maybe I am, but I won’t be. The window opposite stays half-open. 

And I stay here, watching, waiting, feeling the air grow colder without ever touching it. Chapter 2: The Postman Always Hurries Now The postman never used to hurry. He walked the cracked steps of our building like they were sacred, each footfall a slow, deliberate promise. Even the old women on the third floor would wave and smile at him, though they smiled at no one else. But now he rushes. I see him through the peephole, a blur of faded blue and tired shoulders. He leaves the letters in a slanting heap, a chaotic sprawl of paper half-swallowed by the rusted mailboxes. The sound of his hurried steps fades before I can even open the door. This morning, I pick through the pile. Gas bills, supermarket flyers, a folded sheet for a charity drive. And then—one envelope that isn’t the same. Pale blue, almost translucent, the kind you don’t see anymore. No return address, but my name, written in a slanted, looping hand that looks… familiar. I stare at it for a moment, feeling the cold seeping through the tiled hallway floor into my bare feet. The air smells like dust and damp, a thick scent that never leaves this building. A shiver crawls up my spine, but I can’t tell if it’s

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🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 1