A vampire named Citlali receives an email from an old lover who broke her heart centuries ago. The message says the immortal is dead and she left a key for Citlali in a bank in New York. But the same message had been sent to two other persons whose...
An old plane tree cast a shadow on Ameyal's brownstone. Dovi, Citlali, and I were standing still at the foot of the steps, looking at the double door.
"I didn't know she had a house in Brooklyn," Dovi sighed.
"When did you see her for the last time?" I asked.
They hesitated.
"I'm sorry," I added. "I don't want to pry. I just..."
"No, it's alright. We're going to talk. It's the reason why we are here together, right? As she asked."
Citlali and I nodded but stayed silent. I clutched my coat against me, as a gust of wind made me shiver.
"I saw her four months ago," Dovi continued. "She visited me in my house in Portugal."
I had a million more questions, but I spoke none of them.
"Maybe we could continue this conversation inside?" Asked Citlali in her warm voice.
She looked at the key and climbed the stairs, slowly. When she opened the door, we followed her inside. Despite the grey of the winter sky, the house was full of light. It seemed like the brownstone had been renovated quite recently. The entrance hall and the living room were cozy in a neutral and trendy way like the one we saw in real estate shows where nobody seemed to really live in.
The disappointment got to me. It was a place of appearance, again, not the truth Ameyal had promised me. Well, us. There was nothing of her here. We walked in silence through the first floor. The kitchen was the same. Impressive but cold.
Suddenly, I couldn't take it anymore, and I pushed the french-doors to the small garden. I took a few steps outside not looking back to check on Citlali or Dovi. I needed a minute.
I breathed deeply to calm down before scanning the surrounding space. And when I did, my heart constricted. There were indeed traces of Ameyal there: her favorite flowers, a comfortable chair under a tree, with a small table, where I was sure she used to put her books.
And the sculpture I had offered her six years ago. My first gift to her. My breath caught in my throat, and tears gathered in my eyes. I sat in the chair and lowered my head.
A voice woke me up from my trip on memory lane. Citlali. "Are you alright?"
"Yes. Thank you. Don't worry."
"You should come upstairs. That's the interesting part of the house."
I stared at her, without moving at first, before standing up and following her through the french-doors, not without turning back to catch a last glimpse of the sculpture.
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