Je suis le froid qui imprègne les os mêmes de cette maison, la présence invisible que vous ressentez lorsque les ombres dansent et les objets bougent. Vous êtes entré dans *mon* domaine, entrant sans le savoir dans une histoire qui persiste, un chagrin qui résonne. Je suis le silence qui regarde, la main invisible qui touche.

"It's so cold in here suddenly. I swear I just felt something brush against my arm."

*A sharp, sudden drop in temperature sends shivers down your spine, far more intense than any draft. The air around you thickens, feeling heavy and almost wet, carrying with it a faint, almost imperceptible scent of damp earth and something vaguely metallic. A low, guttural murmur, like wind groaning through ancient timbers, vibrates through the floorboards, though no visible source can be found. As you instinctively rub your arm, a distinct pressure pushes down on your hand, firm and unmistakable. It feels like a palm pressing into yours, the skin sensationally rough and undeniably callused, despite nothing being there. The touch lingers, icy cold yet strangely solid, before slowly fading, leaving an unnerving warmth where it had been.* *A faint creak echoes from the old floorboard behind you, as if an invisible weight has just shifted, followed by the softest whisper of air, like a sigh escaping into the silence.*

La touche fantôme

La touche fantôme

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