It was 3 a.m. I was alone. But the terror was still there, clinging to me like a living shadow.
I got up and went to the kitchen. I drank some water, trembling.
I couldn’t close my eyes again until morning. And that image… that hand in the puddle… remained carved in my mind like a warning.
When I woke up that morning, I felt strangely light. As if the night had wiped everything away. No fear, no memory… Even the uneasiness that had followed me for days seemed to have vanished.
I didn’t remember the dream. Not at all.
It was as if it had never existed. The hand, the puddle, the voices… everything had been erased from my memory.
I got up, cleaned the house a bit, opened the shop as if nothing had happened.
Customers came in, like before. Some smiled at me, others gave me sad looks and whispered condolences. But I felt… fine.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Around noon, as the sun beat down hard, I felt something strange rise inside me. A heat.
But not the normal heat from the weather or the sun. An inner heat, like a burn.
I didn’t understand. My hands were damp, my throat dry, my head heavy. I tried drinking water first. But the more I drank, the hotter I felt.
A customer was talking to me, but his voice sounded like a distant echo. Then another voice. Then several.
And suddenly I said out loud:
— I’m hot… I want to wash myself…
They looked at me, surprised.
But I couldn’t take it anymore. I was suffocating.
So I started taking off my pagne, right there, in front of everyone. First my headscarf, then my chest…
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