She groaned as she woke up to the ringing phone. The couch hadn’t done her back or neck any favors. As the phone kept ringing, she sat up and stretched, hearing her bones crack. Grabbing the persistently ringing phone, she pressed her temples with her other hand.
“Yes, ma’am,” she answered, sure it was Birgül calling.
“I’m not your ma’am, commissioner,” said Akif’s voice, snapping her back to reality. She cursed herself for not checking the caller ID. “The autopsy results are in, sir,” he said, waking her up fully.
She jumped to her feet, her excitement banishing her grogginess. “Bring them to the office immediately!” she said, hanging up. She would have rushed to the office right then if it weren’t for the pressing need in her bladder. She hurried to the bathroom, washing her hands as she walked down the hall. Before entering the office, she threw the paper towel into the trash can by the door and burst inside. Akif was sitting in a chair with the files in his hands, waiting for her.
“What’s in them? Did they find anything about the killer?”
Adnan grabbed the files without slowing down, unable to wait to read them. As she flipped through the pages, she fired off questions.
“Was there any sexual assault?”
“No, sir. Our guy worked pretty clean. No fingerprints, hair, fibers; not even a dandruff flake for DNA.”
Adnan was surprised. This killer wasn’t the pedophilic maniac they had assumed. “How did the death occur?”
“The forensic doctor said it’s hard to say definitively. The victim was starved, his body’s resistance weakened first. He had cigarette burns on his back and arms, no older than ten days. His hands were bound behind him with cables, his feet chained tightly. The chain left cuts on his skin.”
“Bastard,” Adnan couldn’t help but mutter. What kind of maniac was this?
“The most painful part is, he sewed a zipper onto the kid’s lips while he was still alive. The doctor thinks the kid was probably unconscious because the stitching was neat.”
“So the child didn’t suffer?”
“At the moment of sewing, no, but afterwards...” Akif fell silent, wetting his dry lips.
“The lips got infected, swelled up, and there were razor cuts under his eyes, which were scabbing over. Sir, this scum did everything short of sexual assault to this kid.”
“And unfortunately, he did it to someone else, too. This time, the victim was an adult man. So it’s not the age range that matters to the killer, but something else.”
Akif chose to stay silent, knowing that to understand this killer, one had to think like him. Adnan was trying to map out a path based on assumptions.
“Could the killer be choosing victims with a specific purpose rather than randomly?”
Akif mumbled to himself, but loud enough for Adnan to hear.
“What do you mean?” Adnan asked.
Akif frowned, interlocking his fingers on his lap. “Maybe Ozan and Muhsin didn’t die for the same reason. Yes, the killer is the same, but the motive might differ. He might have killed the man for some sort of reckoning, even if not the child.”
Akif’s reasoning made sense to Adnan, but it was too early to draw such a conclusion. They needed more information about the killer and the victims.
“Let’s see what Ömer finds out about the victim first. If there’s a connection, we’ll figure it out from there.”
“It’s just a hypothesis, sir, as you said, let’s wait for Ömer.”
While Akif and Adnan buried themselves in the autopsy results and their hypotheses, Ömer had arrived in the district where Muhsin was born, nearing noon. The small town, dominated by old buildings, was quiet and aged. Finding the address in his hand wasn’t too difficult. The neighborhood he entered reminded him of ancient cities from before Christ. The buildings made of stone were half-mansion constructions. The windows were wooden, and the doors, obviously added later, were steel. The roads, likely thanks to the headman’s efforts, were paved with cobblestones. He walked, leaving his footsteps in the silent street. While inspecting the surroundings, a cat that jumped in front of him startled him. He looked up at the upper floors, hoping to see someone through the occasionally open, sometimes closed windows, but the houses seemed abandoned centuries ago. He walked, stopping in front of a more dilapidated, older half-mansion. He looked at the paper in his hand. This was the address. As he walked towards the door, he looked up at the upper floor. All the windows were closed, but some were broken. The house looked long-abandoned. He reached the door, which, unlike the others, was still wooden, and pushed it with his hand. The door creaked open, surprising him further. It wasn’t locked.
A sense of unease crept over him as he pushed the half-open door a bit further and took his first step inside. The wooden floorboards groaned in pain under his foot. He feared if he took another step, the boards would break, and he’d find himself in a void. Summoning his courage, he took the second step, and the wood groaned again. He stepped confidently on the third and continued. Now, he was sure the boards wouldn’t break. The thick dust on the floor captured his footprints. The lilac paint on the walls was peeling off in most places, moldy and darkened in others. As he passed the entrance, he found himself in a large hexagonal room. In one corner, a heavy metal-surrounded fireplace stood with half-burnt logs inside. In the middle, a large table covered in dust was surrounded by chairs, as if someone might come and sit at any moment. High-backed, ornately carved armchairs in front of the broken window were in the fashion of a bygone era.
A painting with Arabic script reading “Allah” hung on the wall. A large clock with a loud tick-tock sound was mounted above the fireplace, stopped at 9:21. He wondered how many years it had ticked in the empty house. The rug laid out in front of the chairs was dusty but clearly handwoven. He heard a drip and immediately turned around. The sound had stopped, and there was no one but him. The sound repeated, “drip.”
He moved towards the wooden door that led to another part of the house. The sound had come from that direction. He walked, with the floor groaning under every step. He peeked through the open door first; it was a kitchen. A shelf hanging on the wall was filled with dishes. The counter was empty, with something resembling a refrigerator standing at the edge like a sentry. In the corner, a small table with a bread basket and upside-down tea glasses on a tray waited as if someone was about to drink tea any moment.
The house seemed as if it hadn’t been abandoned but left for a short while with the intention of returning, but no one ever came back. Even the lace curtain on the window swayed with the gentle breeze. Ömer took a deep breath in the dusty room, the smell of mold filling his lungs with the dust. He left the kitchen, returning to the living room, then to the entrance hall, and headed for the stairs leading to the upper floor. The wooden railing surrounded the stairs, which went straight up. He walked cautiously, watching where he stepped. At the last step, he faced a long, narrow corridor. The walls here were painted a pale blue. The paint was peeling in places, and the ceiling and upper parts were moldy. The floor was still wooden and groaned with every step. He walked, holding onto the wall. He opened the first door he encountered and entered. The single-windowed small room was cluttered. In the corner was a bed, a small two-door wardrobe at its foot, and a thin rug buried under newspapers, magazines, and books. He opened the wardrobe and was surprised again. Clothes were inside. The residents must have left in a hurry without taking any belongings.
“What could have caused this?” he thought, sifting through the papers on the floor. Seeing newspapers from thirty-three years ago was like traveling back in time. He was about to read what was written in the newspaper when the magazines caught his attention. They were obscene magazines featuring naked women. Ömer’s lips curled. He was in the room of someone who had been a teenager thirty-three years ago.
“It must be Muhsin,” he thought. He got up from his crouching position and left the room as slowly as he had entered. He opened the door opposite this time. This room was the same in size and design but had one difference. The bed was empty, and there were no scattered belongings on the floor. He opened the same-design wardrobe. It was empty. This room was either a guest room or its resident had left earlier. Finding nothing, he didn’t linger and exited the room. He walked down the corridor. After a meter, two doors facing each other caught his eye. He opened the first one and entered. This room was larger than the previous ones and had a double bed in the middle, indicating it was a master bedroom. “Muhsin’s parents’ room,” he thought. The bed’s sheet was disheveled. Despite its graying color, it was clear it had once been white. The four-door wardrobe’s doors were open, and its contents were spilling out. A nightstand beside the bed had a bedside lamp and a book lying beside it.
He gently opened the nightstand drawer. Inside were haphazardly thrown papers and an album.
The yellow-colored album had a picture of a blonde woman smiling among wildflowers on its cover. He took out the gloves he always kept in his pocket and put them on. He pulled out the album. The clasp on the cover clicked open, and the first page turned for the first time in years. An elderly man with mostly white hair and crow’s feet, alongside a delicate woman with a few wrinkles betraying her age but still looking youthful with jet-black hair, were posing with three children. One boy with black hair like the woman’s, squinting at the camera and appearing to be around fourteen, indicating he was the oldest. Next to him was a boy with red hair, head bowed, and the youngest, a blonde child looking no older than four, smiling. Trees could be seen in the background. “A happy family,” he thought, but something caught his attention. The three children didn’t resemble each other at all. He turned a few more pages, seeing more photos, mostly of the blonde child, before exiting the room with the album. He entered the room opposite with the same cautious steps. As soon as he stepped in, he knew the room belonged to the blonde child. The crib with iron bars and a dreamcatcher above it, a toy basket by the window, and a fluffy, dusty carpet laid out on the floor...
Hasan had said Muhsin had no one, but this album and house proved he had a family. While wondering what could have happened to them, he descended the stairs. There was nothing more to see in the house, and he needed to find someone to talk to before it got too late. As he reached the living room, he heard a sound from the front door.
“Who’s there?”
An elderly woman’s voice reached him before she entered. She looked at Ömer with unfamiliar and wary eyes. Bent with age, wearing a headscarf and a flannel dress, she fixed her wary gaze on him.
“Who are you?” she asked, lifting her chin defiantly.
“I’m a police officer, ma’am,” Ömer said, thinking she might be someone who could provide the information he needed.
“What would a police officer be doing in this old house, son?”
“I was looking for information about Muhsin. He used to live here. Maybe you know him and can help me.”
The elderly woman lowered her lifted chin. She must have decided he wasn’t a dangerous person.
“Come outside and let’s talk. This house has been empty and airless for years,” she said, coughing. “I’m feeling suffocated,” she added, bending her back to match her slow steps towards the door.
Ömer followed her, and within minutes, they were out of the suffocating dampness and into the fresh air. The elderly woman sat down on the green grass by the roadside. Ömer followed suit, crouching beside her. He still held the album in his hand. He opened it and showed her the first photo.
“Which one is Muhsin, ma’am?”
The woman brought the photo close to her face, her eyes welling up with tears. “Oh, my dear Ayşe! All that’s left of you is this ruined house.”
“Who is Ayşe, ma’am? Is she Muhsin’s mother?”
The woman looked at Ömer as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re looking for Muhsin but you don’t know anything about him? He was a strange child, such a pity what happened to them all.”
Ömer was starting to get frustrated with the old woman who seemed to know everything but spoke as if talking to herself.
“Ma’am, if I knew, why would I come here? Please, tell me what happened to this family from the beginning.”
The woman took a deep breath, stroking the face of the woman in the photo.
“Ayşe was the lady of this house. When they came here, they had two sons. They arrived with two skinny, frail boys. The late Mr. Sinan was a distinguished man. He would attach his pocket watch to his vest and pray five times a day at the mosque. He was very religious, more so than Ayşe. Ayşe’s coal-black hair and fair skin shone brightly. You’d think those boys weren’t born from her. Within a year of their arrival, they had another baby. This baby was also a boy. He had blonde hair, and he was a bundle of joy. They played in the garden for years. The eldest son grew up and thrived. His name was Muhsin. I can’t remember the others’ names.”
The woman laughed, her memories seemingly pleasant.
“She would stand on that balcony,” she pointed to a balcony that Ömer hadn’t noticed before. “And call out ‘black fish, red fish, yellow fish.’ Oh, my poor Ayşe! Just as the blonde boy was growing up, one day a tragic news burned her heart. The blonde boy drowned in the lake. They wailed and cried. My poor Ayşe wasted away day by day and didn’t live long after that. Then Mr. Sinan changed. Their home fell apart.”
When the old woman fell silent, Ömer asked the question he was most curious about.
“What happened to Muhsin, ma’am? And the other child?”
“I don’t know, son. After his mother died, Muhsin went to boarding school. Mr. Sinan brought another woman into the house, but we couldn’t tell if she was a wife or a servant. She was a yellow-haired, plump woman. They stayed here for a few years, and then one morning we saw they had left without taking their belongings. We couldn’t understand why. That’s all I know.”
Ömer looked at the old woman for a long time. She had no reason to lie, but what had happened to the others after Ayşe died? There had to be a way to find out.
“Is there anyone else who knew them, ma’am?”
“No, son. I was the closest to them, and this is all I know.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Ömer. He stood up, his legs numb from crouching. He intended to leave, but something in the house was pulling him back in. Leaving the old woman where she sat, he reentered the house. An abruptly departed family must have left some trace behind. He quickly climbed the stairs, his mind on the messy room. He was now certain it belonged to the middle child. If Muhsin had left earlier, the ones left behind were the father and the middle child. What was his name? Where was he now? How had his ties with Muhsin been severed? There were dozens of unanswered questions, and Ömer wanted to find an answer.
He dived into the scattered books, magazines, and newspapers on the floor. Each bundle of papers he picked up released a cloud of dust. He picked up a few books, flipped through the pages, and put them back. He looked at the newspapers and put them down. When he saw a crumpled piece of paper at the bottom, he felt the excitement of finding something. The paper, found after so many years, seemed fragile as if it could turn to ash at any moment. Carefully, he opened the folds, trying not to tear it, and saw messy, almost unreadable writing in black ink. The creases had made the already illegible writing even more cryptic.
He laid the paper flat on the floor and smoothed it with his hands, placing one hand on one end and the other on the opposite end, and leaned in. As the incomprehensible words began to make sense, he realized what he had found.
“I hate black fish. I hate yellow fish. I hate Sinan. I hate Şakire. I miss her so much. I miss my mom so much. It hurts, there’s blood on my back. He hit me again! And I hid so well this time. I know it, Şakire told him, it’s always the fault of that big-breasted yellow snake. Never mind, let him do what he wants now. The axe returns, the handle turns, and one day it will be payback time.”
Ömer gathered the paper in his hand, feeling the scent of hatred in every letter written more than thirty years ago. “We must find him,” he thought. A voice inside him told him that all the mystery was hidden in him. Taking the paper and the album, he left the house. He needed to return to the city and do more research. He didn’t want to face his superior without concrete information. Leaving the old neighborhood behind, he boarded a minibus. As he was entering the population registry office, Süleyman was waiting at the hospital entrance for the expected visitors. Figen’s mother had called around five in the morning to find out the location of the hospital. They were supposed to arrive around now as evening approached. Süleyman paced back and forth, anxious about not knowing the family and how to explain things to them. He was startled when Figen’s phone rang in his hand. Excitedly, he answered and brought the phone to his ear.
“We’re here, where are you?” said the woman before Süleyman could respond, appearing in front of him. Her eyes scanned everyone, searching for a familiar face among strangers.
“Here I am,” said Süleyman, speaking into the phone and raising his hand. Seeing him, the woman walked towards him quickly. The resemblance to Figen became more noticeable as she got closer.
“How is my daughter? Where is she now?”
Her eyes were deeply lined with worry and sadness, her fear apparent. Süleyman’s nerves got the better of him. Before him stood a mother, full of love for her child, willing to give her life if necessary, a woman ready to burn the world if any harm came to her child.
“She’s still sleeping, they’re all upstairs.”
The woman rushed to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Süleyman couldn’t keep up with her. Panting, he reached the second floor. The woman, not waiting for him, opened each door, closing them upon finding the wrong room.
“This way, ma’am,” said Süleyman to the woman whose name he didn’t know. He walked towards the room, knowing she was following him. He turned the doorknob, revealing three beds with their occupants. The woman slipped past Süleyman into the room. She ran to the bed where her daughter lay. Just as she reached the foot of the bed, her legs gave way. The body that had held on for hours to see her daughter gave up when it reached its goal. She crawled to her daughter on her knees, reaching out to hold the hand lying beside her daughter’s legs. She brought the warm hand to her lips. Her tears fell on her daughter’s hand. Figen’s unresponsive body seemed to continue its peaceful sleep; at least to them. The reality was far from what they believed. Unaware of her mother’s presence, Figen’s soul was plunged into the deepest darkness. She felt trapped in another body, unable to recognize the woman she saw in the mirror. The only thing she knew was that she had become Zehra.
“Zehra,” said the man entering her room without knocking. As he awkwardly tidied her black hair, he said, “Yes, Muhsin?”
“Are you planning to stay here tonight?”
“The weather is bad, let’s stay here. Besides, the car is broken, how would we get back to the city?”
“You’re right,” said Muhsin, unaware of the weight he would gain in later years, walking over and sitting on the couch. “Where will we sleep?” he added.
Zehra, brushing her fallen locks behind her ears, came and sat beside Muhsin. The part of her that was Figen tried to understand who these people were and how she had become Zehra.
“I asked Halime to prepare one of the empty rooms. We’ll sleep there,” he said.
As their rain-soaked bodies succumbed to sleep with the warming room, there was a knock on the door. “Come in!” said Muhsin. A man entered, carrying a tray with tea glasses, careful not to spill them.
“Here you go, ma’am,” he said, offering the tray to Zehra.
“Thank you, Sait Efendi,” she said, taking her tea. Just as Muhsin took his tea, Sait held the tray in front of him and bowed his head. Zehra sensed from his demeanor that he had something to say.
"Is there something wrong, Sait Efendi?" Zehra asked. He had been working with the couple for years. They, like Muhsin and Zehra, had no children. Sait rarely asked for anything, so if he was standing there now, it must be something important.
"Ma'am, one of the kids is badly hurt. I asked him, but he didn't give a clear answer. I think the older kids beat him up, but I'm not sure. Maybe you could ask him, poor kid. His little brother is with him too."
Zehra looked at Sait seriously. She had been hearing about such incidents in the orphanage for a while, but no child ever complained. The only person she suspected was Hüsrev.
"What's the child's name?" she asked, keeping her thoughts to herself.
"Samet, ma'am."
"You can leave now, Sait Efendi. I'll handle it."
Sait bowed his head in respect and left the room. Zehra made a mental note to call Samet first thing in the morning. As they moved to the room Ayşe had prepared, the two souls wandering through memories screamed in agony.
"Who are you?"
All the lights in the orphanage were out. Outside, a fierce storm was raging, with wind, rain, and destruction. The little kids had crawled into the older kids' beds out of fear. The storm, unusual for autumn, seemed like an omen of something. Samet was sleeping, his swollen eyes slightly less puffy. Enes lay in his own bed, accepting the storm's sound as a lullaby. The door to the dark room opened quietly. Someone walked in with a soft 'tak tak.' The kids didn't hear it this time; the storm was too loud. The footsteps reached the bedside. The yellow fish slept, unaware of his enemy. When he was picked up, he grumbled innocently, thinking it was his brother, and snuggled into the dark embrace. Tarık saw it all. He couldn't warn Samet. The guard left the room, Enes in his arms.
When the guard left, Fahri pulled his knees to his chest, having seen Enes being taken but not knowing what to do. If anything happened to Enes, he would never forgive himself. He hadn't stopped it, couldn't stop it. Like everyone else, he was afraid of him. How could he stand up to him? They had made a mistake thinking he wouldn't touch them while the Matron was around. They realized the guard feared no one. He had to do something; thinking alone wouldn't help Enes. He quickly got out of bed, his legs trembling, and reached Samet's bed.
"Samet, wake up!" he said, shaking his friend's shoulder. Samet's sleep had become so light that the slightest touch made him jump. Sleep instantly left his body, and he was already sitting up.
"What happened?" he asked in fear. Fahri was trembling.
"The guard," he said, swallowing hard. Samet was terrified of what he might hear next. The guard, he had said.
"What did he do?" his voice a mix of curiosity and fear.
"He took Enes."
An unstoppable volcano erupted inside Samet. The flowing blood turned to lava, burning his veins. His lips cracked with horror. He had taken his brother, and he hadn't heard it, really? He jumped out of bed and ran out of the room, barefoot in the corridor. He was going to save his brother. Tarık felt like he was spinning in a vortex. He was no longer seeing through Samet's eyes; his soul was floating in the void. He let go of Samet, running after him. Samet entered a dark, dingy room. Someone was singing in the pitch-black room.
"Yellow fish in the lake, swimming with a twist..." The voice sometimes sang so emotionally it tore his insides, sometimes with hatred and spite.
"Let go of my brother!" Samet shouted. Tarık tried to stop him. Samet's shout silenced the song. A voice rasped from the darkness.
"Did you come, black fish?"
"I came, you cursed bastard!" Samet spat his hatred into the darkness, saliva flying from his mouth. A feeble light flickered in the dark. That tiny, momentary light revealed the guard's position, and Tarık saw his face. A few memories from Samet were enough for him to recognize him. "Hüsrev," he thought. "Was he the one who took Buğra too?" His thoughts drifted to his brother as he saw Samet dive into the darkness. He heard a scuffle, followed by a muffled scream.
"Enes, my brother!" and a mix of sobs and choked screams.
"It's your fault he died, kid!" the raspy voice yelled.
"I'm going to kill you!" Samet shouted, and there was the sound of a body hitting something.
If Tarık could, he would save him. If he could, he would never have let this moment happen. Silence fell, and this time the dim light stayed on. Tarık saw two lifeless bodies on the floor and noticed how much Enes resembled Buğra. He felt his soul trembling. It was as if his sole purpose was to watch them. He wished he could return. He heard a whisper.
"No, not now. We need to be found."
He wanted to cry, to sob loudly.
He saw Hüsrev pass by, carrying Enes downstairs. He followed, two shadows beside him. He knew one was Samet, the other Enes. Hüsrev entered the boiler room, laying Enes on the cold concrete. He exited the room and quickly climbed the stairs. The 'tak tak' of his footsteps echoed in the night. This time he took Samet and carried him down. Sweating and panting, he laid him down too. Tarık felt he couldn't breathe. Hüsrev returned with a pickaxe, shovel, and wheelbarrow.
While he dug the pit, three spirits watched him. Tarık now knew the place. He had found them. As Hüsrev threw dirt over Samet and Enes in the pit, the heavy air seemed to stick to his lungs, a massive lump forming in his throat. As Hüsrev spread the mortar over the soil, his spirit pulled away, slowly detaching from the scene.
"Go and save us now," whispered the shadows, the last thing he saw. Then came the silence of death.
Süleyman and the woman focused on Figen, turned their heads toward the continuous 'beep' sound from the next bed. Tarık's monitor wouldn’t stop. When the screen showed a flat red line, people rushed in. Neither Süleyman nor the woman noticed as they were dragged out. The sounds coming from the room seemed surreal. Süleyman clutched his heart. His chest was tight, and he could barely breathe. He managed a few more breaths before collapsing where he stood. The sound of a body hitting the floor snapped Figen’s mother, Nevbahar Hanım, out of her shock, and she screamed as loud as she could.
“Help!”
A swarm of healthcare workers filled the corridor, while the doctor attending to Tarık was horrified at the second 'beep.' Figen's heart had also stopped. The monitor attached to Ayhan was displaying peak heart rates. No one knew what was happening; only those living it would understand the truth.
As Hüsrev finished his work, he heard a commotion. Bare footsteps climbing the stairs. He swallowed nervously. Someone had seen him. Someone had seen him, and his secret was exposed. His hands shook. The black fish shouldn't know. He couldn’t accept all he had done coming to light. Leaving his tools where they were, he ran after the footsteps. The sound of bare feet mixed with his 'tak tak.' His lungs, constricted by smoking and drinking, protested. Out of breath, he finally caught sight of the fleeing person. Realizing who it was, he stopped, placed his hands on his knees, caught his breath, and grinned. Fahri’s fate was sealed.
Once he regained his breath, he straightened up and headed to the kitchen where Fahri had just entered.
The door creaked open, and footsteps echoed on the concrete floor. Fahri, hiding behind the massive counter, felt his heart pounding in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his knees to his chest, pressing his back against the wall. His heart was racing so fast it felt like it would burst out of his ribcage. He heard the creak. Then, the sound of a metal chair scraping against the floor followed.
"There once was a black fish, escaping from the guard. When the guard appeared, its heart would thump."
Fahri bit his lips to stop himself from crying. The guard's raspy voice was singing, but to Fahri, it sounded like a death sentence.
"Where are you, little black fish?"
The footsteps were getting closer to the counter. Fahri cursed himself for not running back to his room. If he had woken the others, maybe he could have saved them. He had decided to leave after thinking for half an hour after Samet. He had only just managed to carry Samet downstairs and hide, watching everything unfold. Now he realized his mistake, but it was too late. Why hadn't he woken up the Headmistress? He had tried to hide, a habit born from years of fear.
"You know you can't escape from me, right?"
His reaper was so close now, Fahri felt the end was near, that he would soon join Samet and Enes. He lifted his head from his knees. He wouldn't die without a fight, without saying his last words. He wiped his wet cheeks with his elbow and looked around. His eyes searched for anything that could be used as a weapon. He noticed a small white canister under the counter. He silently reached for it. He could hear the guard moving between the tables. He opened the canister and wrinkled his nose at the smell of gas. He placed the canister beside him and carefully straightened up. He needed to check the drawer for a knife. His knees, numb from crouching, trembled, and his foot hit the canister, making a soft popping sound as it tipped over. Silence for a moment, then footsteps quickly approaching. Fahri jumped up just as quickly. He opened the drawer and rummaged through it, but claws grabbed his neck.
"Did I tell you that you can't escape?" The guard's disgusting laughter grated in Fahri's ears. Fahri grabbed the first thing his hand touched in the drawer and swung his arm back. The sharp prongs of a fork grazed Hüsrev, who angrily threw Fahri to the ground. Before falling, Fahri grabbed onto Hüsrev's pants and pulled him down with him. Fahri climbed on top of him before Hüsrev, heavy and slow, could recover. Fahri's fingers searched for the fallen fork. Before he could find it, Hüsrev threw him off. As he fell on his back, a cigarette case and lighter fell from Hüsrev's pocket. Hüsrev's fingers wrapped around Fahri's neck and squeezed. Fahri struggled to breathe, trying to push him off, but he was too weak. His face turned purple, his tongue protruding. This was it, his sixteen-year life was ending. As his eyes closed, he saw it, the golden case winking at him. Blood dripped from his lips as he smiled. He wouldn't die alone. With his last bit of strength, he reached for the lighter and gifted the room with magical fire. The spilled gas ignited, engulfing Fahri and Hüsrev together.
"Ma'am, wake up!" Muhsin and Zehra jumped out of bed at the sound of the urgent voice. When Muhsin opened the door in a hurry, he saw Mr. Sait and the smoke coming from the hallway.
"There's a fire, Sir," Sait said and left just as quickly as he came. The screams rising from the lower floors filled Zehra with dread. The children were in danger.
"Muhsin, do something!" she cried, her voice trembling. Without thinking about clothes or slippers, she ran downstairs. As she reached the next floor, she could hardly breathe through the thick smoke. Children trying to leave their rooms were retreating back inside.
"Mr. Sait, open the door!" she yelled towards the floor covered in flames and smoke.
"I can't, Ma'am! The door is burning like fire."
"Kids, are you okay?" Zehra shouted, choking on the smoke.
"Mom!" a child screamed, but Zehra couldn't tell who it was.
"Headmistress, save us!" several others cried out simultaneously. Zehra's eyes stung, and tears streamed down her face. She couldn't ignore the voices of her children. With a burst of courage, she plunged into the smoke. She reached the second floor, now engulfed in flames. Her nightgown caught fire from below as she saw her children screaming in the flames. Her body burned, and she couldn't breathe. As she succumbed to the fire, she felt the pain Figen had felt. Memories left Zehra as her spirit rose, and she saw a shadow beside her.
"Find him," the shadow, which Zehra was sure was herself, whispered. As she floated up through the flames, her memories faded into darkness. Then, there was nothing but the silence of death.
Muhsin ran after Zehra, but it was too late. The stairs leading down were starting to collapse. He rushed back up, hoping to save the children on the upper floors. He broke the corridor window with his elbow.
"Everyone get out of your rooms!" he shouted. As fresh air rushed in through the open window, he felt a momentary relief, but he soon realized his mistake. The oxygen fed the flames, making them burn even fiercer. The children listened to him, emerging from the smoke and gathering around him. There was still one more floor above, with children trying to come down. The total number of children on the current and upper floors was one hundred fifty. Muhsin looked out the window. Below, there was grass and some small bushes. The flames were getting closer, and the children were crying.
He had to make a quick decision. With the urgency of the moment, his chest heaved, and he struggled to breathe. Ayhan, who shared his memories, was speechless.
"Jump!" Muhsin said.
The children looked at him with fearful, uncertain eyes. Muhsin pointed to the back, showing them the flames.
"Do you want to die by burning or by jumping? If we jump, we might survive."
Seventeen-year-old Ahmet approached the window and pulled himself up. He placed his feet on the ledge and gripped the frames on either side with his hands. He looked down, then back up, and closed his eyes. As he let himself fall, Ayhan felt detached from the scene. A voice whispered to his distant mind.
"He didn't die; he's alive. Find him!"
The voice faded slowly, and his body, free of memories, blended into the darkness. Then, there was nothing but the silence of death.