It was a house like no other, and so big that the child, crossing the threshold, was swallowed up.
And if outside reigned a great sun of August, inside, it was the triumph of a pale twilight.
On tiptoe, the child advanced in the darkness.
The house, although compressed by ivy, soon engulfed by thick vegetation, breathed.
She was breathing.
The child was scared, but something was calling him.
The more she advanced, the more the song of the cicadas receded.
It seemed to him that this house sheltered all his vivid imagination.
In his eyes, the particles of gold dust were tiny fairies and the silhouette of this ancient piece of furniture, the lair of a ferocious beast.
The child felt spied upon.
No doubt she was.
As she climbed the steps of the spiral staircase, a cold wind bit the back of her neck.
Upstairs, there were still traces of long-unhooked frames.
The child wanted to climb on it, lend his face...
This article is for subscribers only.
You have 78% left to discover.
Cultivating your freedom is cultivating your curiosity.
Keep reading your article for €0.99 for the first month
I ENJOY IT
Already subscribed?
Login
