Fourteen days later, Julien crossed the threshold of the house, leaning on crutches, his body marked by injuries and his face hollow. But it wasn’t his condition that struck me the most. It was the silence.
A heavy silence, almost hostile.
Lina’s bedroom had remained frozen in time. Her bed perfectly made. Her colored pencils lined up beside unfinished drawings. Her dolls where she had left them. Nothing had moved. And yet, everything was different.
I was still breathing, yes… but living? I was no longer sure. I moved forward mechanically, like a shadow.
One morning, as I stared at a cup of coffee that had gone cold in my hands, Oslo, our dog, suddenly became agitated. He was frantically scratching at the back door, barking in an unusual way—almost urgent. It wasn’t an ordinary bark. There was a desperation, an insistence that sent shivers down my spine.
