What Sleeps – Extrait 14

What Sleeps – Extrait 14

ring, the faint hum a pulse against the quiet. She didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to hear that gentle voice, that quiet concern pressing against her like warm hands. She needed the quiet. Needed the steam. Needed the ache to twist, to press, to remind her that she was still here. That she was still something, even if she didn’t know what. The phone buzzed again, a faint pulse, and then it was silent. Just the rain tapping against the window, the steam curling against the ceiling, the faint, slow pulse of water against her fingers. Andrei. His name slipped out again, a whisper, a sigh, a ghost. She didn’t know if she missed him. Didn’t know if she hated him. Didn’t know if it mattered. But the letter was there. His name. Her name. And the ache wouldn’t leave. She leaned back, the water pressing against her skin, the ache twisting, slow, steady, a hollow knot beneath her ribs. She wanted to forget. Wanted to sleep. Wanted to close her eyes and let the mist take her, let the cold press in, let the ache melt away. But she couldn’t. Because he was still there. Somewhere. A shadow in the mist, a ghost leaning against the balcony, a voice that whispered through the rain. And so was she. The old woman. The pale, reaching fingers, the faint, dying whisper. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” Kalina closed her eyes, the ache a slow, steady pulse, the water warm against her skin. And the steam whispered, curling around her, a faint, damp breath that never left. Chapter 11: Alexei Paints in Blue Kalina stood there, her back against the wall, her arms crossed tight, the ache a slow, steady pulse beneath her ribs. The light in the studio was soft, pale, the rain a faint, steady whisper against the window. The shadows stretched, twisting beneath the pale glow, and the blue on the canvas bled, melted, a dark, twisting stain. Alexei’s brush moved, slow, steady, a faint, trembling arc. He leaned close, his fingers brushing against the edge, his eyes sharp, focused, lost in that quiet, shifting world of color. Blue. Always blue. But not just one blue. Never just one. “I don’t know how you do that,” she whispered, her voice a thin, quiet thread. “Do what?” “See something… in nothing.” “It’s not nothing.” His voice was calm, warm, a faint, low hum. “It’s just not finished.” “Maybe it never is.” “Nothing ever is.” His brush moved, the blue twisting, a faint, dark curve against the pale cloth. “But we keep trying.” Kalina closed her eyes, the ache pressing, the cold a faint, damp touch against her skin. “I wish I could… see it like you do.” “You do.” His voice was a faint, quiet breath. “You just don’t know it.” “I don’t see anything. Just… shadows.” “Shadows are something.” “Are they?” “Of course.” His brush moved, the blue bleeding, twisting. “They’re what’s left behind when the light gets scared.” She almost laughed. Almost. But the sound caught, twisted, melted into silence. “That sounds like something you’d say.” “Because it is.” He leaned back, his fingers brushing against his chin, a faint smear of blue on his cheek, his eyes catching the pale light. “And it’s true.” “What if the light doesn’t come back?” “It always does. Eventually.” Kalina watched him, the brush a faint, trembling arc, the blue a shadow twisting, reaching. The light caught his hair, a faint silver gleam against the dark curls, his eyes sharp, his fingers stained. “Alexei…” Her voice was softer now, a whisper caught between the quiet, between the soft hum of rain against the glass. “Hmm?” He didn’t look away from the canvas, his fingers tracing the edge, the brush pressing, the blue spreading, bleeding. “I’m afraid.” “I know.” “I don’t know what I’m afraid of.” “Maybe you do.” “I don’t.” Her fingers tightened against her sleeves, the ache pressing, twisting. “I just… I feel like I’m… falling. Or waiting. Or something.” “Maybe you’re

---

⬅️ Extrait précédent | Extrait suivant ➡️

🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 14

What Sleeps – Extrait 13

What Sleeps – Extrait 13

whisper. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” Andrei. The ache is too sharp. The cold is too thick. I pull away, the warmth slipping, the mist pressing against the window, the rain a thin, silver thread. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who to tell. I don’t know who she was. But she knew me. Or she knew something. And now she’s gone. Chapter 10: November in the Bathtub Kalina sat in the bathtub, the water lukewarm, a faint ripple shivering across the surface. The steam had faded, curling into the shadows of the small, cracked-tile bathroom. The ceiling was yellowed with age, a faint cobweb swaying gently in the corner, caught in the slow, invisible breath of the room. She leaned back, the porcelain cool against her shoulders, her knees drawn up, the tips of her toes just breaking the surface. She stared at them, pale and distorted beneath the water, a faint blur of her own reflection wavering. Somewhere beyond the thin walls, the city murmured—a low, distant hum, rain tapping against the window like a quiet, patient visitor. But here, in the steam and silence, time seemed to hold its breath. She was alone. Almost alone. Because the letter was there, folded neatly on the sink, the pale blue paper slightly wrinkled, the ink faint, blurred in places. Her name. Over and over. Kalina. Kalina. Kalina. His handwriting. The shape of the letters, the way the K twisted, the slant of the Ls, the slight hesitation in the curve of the A. She knew it. Knew it better than she knew her own. But he was gone. Not dead. Just gone. A door that had closed without a sound. A name whispered and then forgotten. Or maybe not forgotten. Maybe she was the one who was forgotten, drifting through the quiet, watching the mist press against the glass. The water rippled again, a faint, slow pulse, a cold tendril curling around her ankle. She stared at it, her reflection wavering, her own face a pale, twisted shadow beneath the surface. She thought of the old woman. The pale, reaching fingers. The dark stains spreading across the cold, wet floor. The voice, a faint, dying whisper. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” But who? Who was she talking about? Who was she? Kalina’s fingers drifted beneath the surface, the water warm against her skin, the ache a slow, hollow knot in her chest. She tried to breathe, but the air felt thick, too thick, pressing against her throat. He would know. He would have known. He always knew. He saw things she couldn’t see, heard whispers she couldn’t hear. Even when he didn’t say anything, she felt it. The weight of his silence, the way it pressed against the air. But he was gone. The old woman was gone too. A ghost. A shadow slipping through the mist, a faint whisper fading into the cold. But she knew something. Knew her. Or knew someone. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” Her name. The letter. The handwriting she couldn’t forget, twisting around her like a question, a ghost. Andrei. She whispered it, a faint, thin breath, the word rippling across the water, fading into the steam. He had always been a ghost. Even when he was there. A shadow leaning against the balcony, a cigarette glowing like a dying star, his voice a low, soft hum that never rose, never cracked, always quiet, always watching. And then he was gone. Kalina leaned forward, her knees pressing against her chest, her fingers tracing the surface of the water. She thought of the letter, the ink faint, her name twisting across the pale blue paper. She thought of the old woman, her voice a faint, dying thread. She closed her eyes, the ache pressing, twisting, the steam a thin, damp breath against her face. Who was she? Who was she speaking to? Her fingers trailed beneath the surface, pale shapes twisting, curling, her reflection a dark blur. Her phone buzzed, a faint hum against the sink, the screen glowing, a name she didn’t want to see. Ina. She let it

---

⬅️ Extrait précédent | Extrait suivant ➡️

🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 13

What Sleeps – Extrait 12

What Sleeps – Extrait 12

thread. I think of her face. Her fingers. The dark stains curling around her like shadows. I think of her voice, a faint, dying whisper. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” Tell who? Who was she talking about? Who should I tell? What should I say? Andrei. His name slips out, a whisper, sharp, thin. His name, twisting around me, a ghost, a shadow. It’s always him. Always his name. Always the ache that never leaves. But it can’t be him. It’s not him. It’s just the mist, just the rain, just the ache twisting beneath my chest. I close my eyes, the darkness pressing, the ache a slow, sharp twist. I want to go home. I want to sleep. I want to forget. But I can’t. The cold won’t leave. The ache won’t let go. Her face is there, her voice a faint, shivering thread. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” I push away from the wall, the rain pressing against my face, the mist thick, pale, pressing. I walk. I don’t know where. I don’t care. I just need to move. Need to breathe. Need to forget. But I can’t. My feet trace old paths, the streetlights a faint, sickly glow, the city a pale, shivering ghost. I turn a corner, another, the ache twisting, sharp, tight. My breath is too thin, too fast, tearing at my throat. And then I see it. The café. Mira’s café. The pale blue awning, wet and dark, the light spilling through the rain-streaked glass. Warm. Bright. A memory. I push the door, the bell a faint, hollow chime. The warmth wraps around me, the scent of coffee thick and sweet, the soft hum of quiet voices. But I’m shaking. My fingers numb, my breath a faint, silver mist. “Kalina?” Her voice, warm, bright, too bright. Mira’s smile, a soft, gentle light. “Are you okay?” No. No, I’m not. But I can’t say that. I can’t say anything. The ache is too sharp, the cold too thick, pressing. “I just… I just need to sit,” I whisper, my voice too thin, too sharp. “Of course. Sit. I’ll get you something warm.” She’s already moving, her hands a soft blur, her voice a quiet, gentle hum. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I almost laugh. Almost. But the sound dies, a faint, thin breath, caught in the cold knot in my chest. I sit, the chair warm, too warm. The ache twists, pressing, sharp. I press my hands against the table, my fingers white, numb, shaking. Mira brings the cup, the steam a thin, silver thread, the warmth pressing against my fingers. But I don’t drink. I just stare at it, the ache twisting, the cold pressing. “Kalina…?” Her voice, soft, close, too close. “What happened?” “I don’t know.” The words slip out, tangled, raw. “I… I saw her. She was there. But she’s gone. And I…” “Who?” Mira leans closer, her eyes dark, gentle, worried. “Kalina, you’re not making sense.” “I saw her.” My voice is too thin, too sharp, cracking. “The old woman. She… she’s gone.” “Gone?” Mira’s fingers brush against mine, warm, soft. “Kalina, what do you mean?” “She’s dead.” The words slip out, sharp, bitter, a knife. “She’s dead. She died. And I just… I left.” Mira’s hand tightens, her eyes wide, the warmth pressing, her voice a soft, desperate whisper. “Kalina, you have to tell someone. You have to—” “No.” My voice is too loud, sharp, cracking. “No. I can’t. I can’t. I don’t… I don’t know what to do.” “Kalina…” “She told me… she told me to tell him. To tell him she’s sorry.” The ache twists, sharp, tight, pressing against my ribs. “But I don’t know who. I don’t know who…” “Tell who? Who is she talking about?” “I don’t know.” My voice is too thin, too fast. “I don’t know.” Mira’s fingers tighten, her voice a faint, shivering thread. “Kalina… You’re shaking.” “I can’t… I can’t…” The ache is too sharp, the cold too thick. “I don’t… I don’t…” “Breathe.” Mira’s voice, calm, warm, pressing. “Breathe, Kalina. You’re okay. You’re safe. Just breathe.” But I can’t. The ache won’t leave. The cold won’t let go. Her face is there, her voice a faint, dying

---

⬅️ Extrait précédent | Extrait suivant ➡️

🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 12

What Sleeps – Extrait 11

What Sleeps – Extrait 11

the way her kindness presses, warm and heavy, like a blanket I can’t shake off. “I’m fine,” I whisper again, my fingers tightening around the cup, the heat pressing against my palm. “Kalina…” “I’m fine.” Louder this time, sharp, too sharp. A crack. A fracture. And I see it—her smile fading, her fingers pulling back, the soft light in her eyes dimming. “Okay,” she whispers, turning, her voice too soft, too distant. “Okay.” I watch her go, the warmth slipping away, the light too bright, too thick. I stare at the cookie, the thin, pale circle resting against the saucer, the steam curling, twisting, fading. I should say something. I should apologize. But the ache is too sharp, the cold too thick. I sip the coffee, the warmth pressing against my lips, bitter, too bitter. I think of the letter. His name. My name. Twisting around me. A ghost. A curse. I grab the cookie, the soft, crumbly sweetness pressing against my teeth. It tastes like sugar and nothing. Like warmth that never reaches. Like a smile that never stays. The door chimes, a faint, soft ring. I look up, the rain twisting against the glass, the mist thick, pale, pressing against the window. And I see it. A figure. Dark, just beyond the glass, a shadow pressed against the pale light. Watching. My breath catches, the ache twisting. My fingers tighten around the cup, the warmth seeping away. “Kalina?” Mira’s voice, distant, fading. “Are you…?” But I stand, the chair scraping against the floor, the ache a knife twisting, sharp, cold. I push the door, the cold air pressing against me, the mist a damp, pale shroud. But the figure is gone. Just mist. Just rain. Just shadows. I stand there, the ache twisting, the cold pressing against me, the rain clinging to my skin. My fingers are numb, my breath sharp, thin. But I feel it. The eyes. Watching. Always watching. Andrei. My chest is too tight, my breath too thin, the ache twisting, a knife against my ribs. I turn, walking, running, the rain a faint, steady whisper, the city a pale, shivering ghost. And I whisper his name again. Andrei. But the mist doesn’t answer. And I’m just a shadow. A name. A ghost. Chapter 9: The Shoes Outside Apartment 12B I walk. I don’t run. I should. I should run. But I don’t. My feet press against the wet stone, the mist curling around me, the pale light trembling, the ache twisting, sharp and cold. The rain is a thin, silver thread, a soft whisper against the glass, against the iron railing, against my skin. I feel it, cold, sharp, pressing against my cheeks, my hands, but I don’t stop. I don’t think. I just walk. I see the street. The pale, slick cobblestones, the dark, empty windows, the sickly glow of the streetlights fading into the mist. I walk. My feet splash against the puddles, the cold pressing against me, the ache twisting, pressing. My breath is sharp, thin, too fast, tearing at my throat. My fingers are white, stiff, my nails digging into my palms. I taste copper. I taste rain. I taste fear. Her face is there. The old woman. Her face, pale, twisted, her eyes dark, empty, staring at nothing. Her fingers twitching, her voice a faint, thin whisper. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” I shouldn’t have left her. I should have done something. I should have called someone. But I didn’t. I just walked. Just left her there, her fingers pale, her breath fading, the dark stains spreading, curling around her. I’m a coward. I’m nothing. I’m nothing but a ghost, a shadow, a name twisted around me like a curse. I turn a corner, the mist thick, pressing, the rain a soft, steady whisper. My chest is tight, the ache twisting, pressing against my ribs. I lean against the wall, the cold seeping through my coat, the wet stone pressing against my back. Breathe. Breathe. But I can’t. The air is thick, sharp, the cold pressing, twisting. My breath is thin, too thin, a faint, sharp

---

⬅️ Extrait précédent | Extrait suivant ➡️

🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 11

What Sleeps – Extrait 10

What Sleeps – Extrait 10

mist. My heart stutters, a cold, sharp ache pressing against my chest. I stop, the wet cobblestones slick beneath me, my breath a faint mist. The door isn’t supposed to be open. I locked it. I always lock it. But it’s open. A faint creak echoes, a whisper of movement. The mist curls around me, the pale streetlight a thin, trembling glow. “Hello?” My voice is too small, swallowed by the cold air. Nothing. Just the faint, rhythmic creak of the door, swinging against the frame. I take a step forward, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag, the ache twisting, pressing. Another step. And another. The mist presses in, thick and damp, the pale light blurring, the cold biting at my cheeks. I reach out, my fingers brushing against the cold metal of the handle. The door swings inward, a faint, hollow moan whispering through the dark hallway. And I see it. A letter. Pale blue, almost translucent, resting on the floor just inside the door. No name. No address. Just there. Waiting. Chapter 8: Mira Adds a Cookie I keep walking. I don’t know where. I don’t know why. The mist is thick, the rain a thin, cold whisper against my face. My feet press against the wet cobblestones, the ache twisting, sharp and heavy, a knife buried beneath my ribs. I think of the letter. His name. My name. My name twisted around me, a ghost, a curse, a question I can’t answer. I turn a corner. The mist thickens, a pale, silver sheet, the streetlights a sickly yellow blur. The city is a ghost. The buildings are shadows. The sky is a pale, shivering veil. And I see it. The café. Mira’s café. The pale blue awning wet and dark, the light spilling through the rain-streaked glass. Warm. Bright. A memory. I push the door, the bell a faint, hollow chime. The warmth wraps around me, the scent of coffee thick and sweet, the soft hum of quiet voices. But I’m shaking. My fingers numb, my breath a faint, silver mist. “Kalina?” Her voice, warm, bright, always too bright. Mira’s smile, soft and wide, her hands already reaching for the jar. “Your usual?” I want to say no. I want to turn, to leave, to disappear into the mist. But I can’t. I stand there, the ache twisting, the rain clinging to my hair, my coat damp, heavy, pressing against my shoulders. “Kalina, you’re soaked. Sit, please.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, already reaching for a towel, her hands a soft blur, her voice a quiet, gentle hum. “I’ll bring you something warm.” I sit. The chair is soft, warm. Too warm. The ache twists, a knot beneath my ribs. The light is too bright, the warmth too thick. I press my hands against the table, the wet paper still crumpled in my fist, the ink smudged, the letters fading. Kalina. Kalina. Kalina. “Here.” Mira’s voice, soft, close. The cup warm against my fingers, the steam a thin, silver thread. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I almost laugh. Almost. But the sound dies, a faint, thin breath, caught in the cold knot in my chest. “I’m fine.” The lie slips out, sharp, hollow. “Are you?” Her eyes are dark, gentle, too gentle. She knows. She always knows. But she never says it. Just reaches for the jar, her fingers soft, warm, and she adds a cookie to the saucer. Always. Always a cookie. “Your magic cookie.” She smiles, a soft, bright smile. “It makes everything better.” It doesn’t. I want to say that. I want to tell her that the ache doesn’t go away, that the shadows don’t leave, that the mist is always there, pressing, twisting. But I don’t. I just hold the cup, the warmth sinking into my fingers, the ache tightening, pressing. “I thought I saw someone,” I whisper, the words slipping out, tangled, raw. “Someone who shouldn’t be here.” “Who?” I shake my head, the ache a slow, sharp twist. “No one. It was nothing.” But her eyes stay, soft, watching, a quiet shadow of concern. And I hate it. I hate the way she looks at me,

---

⬅️ Extrait précédent | Extrait suivant ➡️

🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 10

What Sleeps – Extrait 9

What Sleeps – Extrait 9

biting at my cheeks. I pass the square, the old fountain a shadowed blur, the empty benches wet and dark. I cross the narrow street, my steps quick, my breath a faint mist. And then I see him. A figure, standing just beyond the tram line, his back to me, his coat dark against the pale mist. Tall, thin, leaning slightly, one hand in his pocket, the other resting against the iron railing. My heart stutters, a cold, sharp ache spreading through my chest. I stop, the wet cobblestones slick beneath me, my breath catching. “Dad?” The word is a whisper, swallowed by the mist. The figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn. Just stands there, still and silent, a shadow against the pale light. I take a step forward, the ache tightening, my fingers numb against the cold. Another step. And another. The mist curls around me, the street fading, the city a pale, distant hum. “Dad?” Louder this time. But he doesn’t move. I’m closer now, close enough to see the faint outline of his shoulders, the curve of his coat, the pale mist curling around his feet. Another step. The cold presses in, the silence too thick, too sharp. And then he turns. Not my father. A young man, maybe thirty, his face pale in the dim light, his eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his hat. He looks at me, his gaze calm, almost curious. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice too thin. “I thought you were—” “Looking for someone?” His voice is warm, a faint smile touching his lips. “I think we all are.” I should turn away, should walk, should leave. But I stand there, the cold air pressing against me, the ache twisting beneath my ribs. “I… I thought you were someone else.” “Don’t we all?” he says, his smile soft, almost sad. “Sometimes we spend so long looking for someone, we forget who we’re running from.” His words catch, a faint, sharp ache beneath them. I don’t answer, don’t move. Just stand there, the mist pressing against us, the city a pale, shivering ghost around us. “You shouldn’t walk alone in the mist,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It has a way of making ghosts out of the living.” “I’m not afraid of ghosts,” I whisper, but even I don’t believe it. “Maybe not.” He steps closer, his coat brushing against my sleeve, the scent of rain and something else—something sharp, metallic. “But they seem to find you anyway.” I want to ask what he means, want to ask who he is, why he’s here. But the words catch, the cold pressing against my throat. “Be careful, Kalina.” My breath catches. “How do you—?” But he’s already moving, stepping past me, his coat a dark blur in the mist, his steps slow, deliberate. I turn, the cold knot twisting, my pulse too loud, too fast. “Wait—how do you know my name?” But he doesn’t answer. His steps fade, swallowed by the mist, his shadow melting into the pale fog. I stand there, the ache in my chest a slow, sharp twist. My fingers numb against the cold. The tram tracks glisten beneath the pale light, the rain a faint, silent whisper. I turn, my feet moving, my breath sharp and thin. I don’t look back. I don’t call out. I just walk, the mist curling around me, the streetlights a pale, trembling glow. But his voice stays, twisting around me like a whisper. Be careful, Kalina. How does he know my name? The mist thickens, the city a blurred shadow, the lights fading, the cold pressing against my skin. I take the long way home. Through the narrow streets, the empty square, past the old bakery with its shuttered windows. The mist is a pale, shivering cloak, the rain a faint, steady whisper. My breath curls against the air, a thin, silver thread. And then I see it. The building. My building. The pale, cracked walls, the narrow stairwell, the old iron railing. But the window—my window—is dark. And the door is open. Not wide, just a crack. Just a faint, narrow sliver of darkness spilling out, a pale, thin line against the

---

⬅️ Extrait précédent | Extrait suivant ➡️

🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 9

What Sleeps – Extrait 8

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

---

⬅️ Extrait précédent | Extrait suivant ➡️

🔖 Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 8