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"I want you to be free," Ferman replied, finally looking his son in the eye. "Every time you look at a headstone, you’re looking backward. I’ve spent my whole life carrying the weight of my father’s ghost. I won't let you carry mine. If I’m gone, I’m gone. Don’t bring flowers to a piece of marble just to feel better about a life we didn't live together."
Ferman didn't flinch. He took a slow sip of the bitter tea. He thought of the years of missed birthdays, the cold dinners, and the way he had prioritized the "honor" of the Akdeniz name over the happiness of the boy sitting before him. He had been a storm of a father, and now he was just a dying ember.
Weeks later, when the news reached Hamburg, Selim stood on his balcony overlooking a city that didn't know his history. He held a handful of soil from a potted plant on his ledge. He thought of the cemetery in Istanbul, the cold wind off the Bosphorus, and the man who had forbidden him from visiting it.
Ferman Akdeniz lay under the earth, alone and finally successful: he had become the first man in his lineage to die without leaving a burden behind.
The rain in Istanbul didn’t wash things away; it just made the grime stick. Ferman Akdeniz sat in the corner of a dimly lit tea house in Kadıköy, his fingers tracing the rim of a chipped glass. He was a man who had spent his life building walls—some out of concrete, most out of silence.
Selim winced as if struck. "Is that what you want? To be forgotten?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, rusted key—the key to the old house in Mardin he had refused to sell for decades. He pushed it across the table.
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