Gaziantep was louder than Ceren imagined.
Cars screamed instead of bleated. Lights buzzed. Dogs barked from rooftops. The buildings were too close together—no room for wind, no room for stars.
The apartment smelled like fried onions and mold. The ceiling leaked. The windows stuck. The water came out rusty for the first few seconds.
But Ayşe didn't complain.
She cleaned. She cooked. She sewed until her fingers bled. She did everything but speak about him.
Senem enrolled in school quickly—quiet, polite, invisible.
Ceren tried to follow. But everything in the city itched.
The uniforms. The stares. The teacher who mocked her accent.
At recess, girls huddled in circles, talking about celebrities, phones, and things Ceren had never touched.
She sat under a tree alone. Even the trees were different—angry, trimmed, boxed in concrete.
One boy threw a rock at her.
Called her "Köylü cadı." Village witch.
She didn't flinch.
But that night, she drew a crow on the fogged glass of her bedroom window and whispered:
> "If you're real, come take me back."
The next morning, the same crow was on the ledge.
Watching her.