Elman sat on a low wooden stool, his back hunched, staring at a broken clock on the workbench. He hadn’t moved in an hour. Across from him, the Old Master—Usta—was meticulously sharpening a chisel. The scrape of metal against stone was the only other sound in the room.
The rain hammered against the rusted tin roof of the workshop, a rhythmic, hollow sound that filled the silence between them. Inside, the air smelled of sawdust, old grease, and the bitter scent of cold tea. Bu Nasil Yasamaq Usta🥀
Elman looked at his own hands, calloused and stained. "But it hurts, Usta. The sharpness hurts." Elman sat on a low wooden stool, his