When I look through the huge bay window slightly inclined forward, I feel like I am looking at the prow of a large ship from the bridge, and that ship would calmly sail on rough seas. In reality, it is not possible to catch sight of the sea—the real thing, not the metaphor—although it is actually just at the foot of those hills. At least, we could expect to find it there. The sky is much too dark to distinguish anything farther than one hundred yards or so. This grey twilight is brightened up with very large flakes that clearly stand out against the dark background, like strange swirling feathers. The difference with the night is pretty subtle. However, my watch says that it is already nine o’clock in the morning. It is February: so there are four months that we have seen neither the sun nor the stars. The day is forever enshrouded under this thick and ashen cerement, both literally and figuratively; the night is made of the blackest ink. Even the snow cover no longer produces this usual reverb which gave before, at dark, a salmon pink hue to the smog.
What do You think about The Shelter (Survivors Book 1)?
