Catarina did not sleep.
Lying awake, staring at the ceiling, she listened to the house breathing around her: the creaking of wood, the sighing of the wind, the whispering of water in the pipes.
Each sound formed a sentence she refused to hear.
Around two in the morning, she got up.
The room was bathed in the bluish glow of the snow.
She put on a sweater and walked barefoot to the window.
The forest behind the house stretched out, immense. Beautiful. Dangerous.
She thought of Althea, her laughter, her innocence.
A dull nausea rose up inside her.
How could she look at this girl tomorrow, as she had done since she arrived?
How could she pretend that nothing had happened?
That nothing was still burning?
She turned away abruptly.
On the table, her phone vibrated.
A message. Unknown number:
"You're not sleeping either?"
Her heart sank.
It was him. Sylus.
She remained motionless, staring at the screen.
Then her fingers tapped despite herself:
Catarina: Stop.
Sylus: I can't.
Catarina: You shouldn't even be talking to me.
Sylus: And yet... you're answering.
She closed her eyes, took a breath, trying to calm the trembling of her hands.
Catarina: Why are you doing this?
Sylus: Because I don't know how to stop thinking about it.
Catarina: You talk as if it were a love story.
Sylus: What if it is?
The phone slipped from her fingers and fell onto the bed.
No. He had no right. Not after all that.
But her heart was beating too fast, and something inside her refused to die.
So she went outside. Without a coat. Without thinking.
The stairs creaked under her feet.
The house was asleep, or pretending to be.
In the living room, the light from the fire still burned, weak and flickering.
Sylus was there.
Sitting motionless, elbows on his knees, staring into the flames.
He didn't look up when she entered, as if he knew she would come.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" she asked.
He barely shrugged.
"Sleep is for those who have nothing to reproach themselves for."
She wrapped her arms around herself.
"What about me, then?"
He looked up.
There was no desire in his gaze. Not yet.
Just that tenderness that hurts more than anything else.
"You're still trying to understand."
She smiled sadly.
"And you're trying to forgive yourself."
He lowered his head.
"Maybe."
Silence fell again, thick, almost gentle.
The fire crackled.
And outside, the snow continued to fall, tirelessly, like a curtain that refused to be opened.