The forest they had torn through on their way to the summit of Mount Ararat was dark even during the day.
Rojin and Berivan were guiding Aisha and Muhammad.
They were the ones who knew best the locations of the summit caves; the sacred book had been hidden there by Aisha's father.
Those ancient trees intertwined their branches as if hiding a terrible secret from the sun.
Light filtered through, faintly, better than nothing.
M didn't want to tell Aisha how he'd learned the location of this sacred treasure. I don't know if your father is alive, but I know where he hid the sacred treasure on that last journey.
Your father was playing a double game and sided with the rebels against the regime for a large sum, I'm sorry to tell you, Aisha.
This was a supernatural place where the shadows never disappeared, as if a lens had been placed over their eyes.
They left the cave at daybreak, when darkness began to lift.
They had to be careful of the Turkish commandos.
The guerrilla war, which began in 1985, continued uninterrupted, except for brief ceasefires.
Ayşe had rested for two days, preserving whatever life remained in her body to save it.
After many unsuccessful attempts, she knew deep down that she was close to her goal.
The truth her father had entrusted to her: the Quran.
M. had drawn a compass on the ground, looking at the occasional rays of light that filtered through the sky, trying to determine north as best she could.
She had tried every direction. She had searched for a way out of the forest.
However, she could only get as far as she could before nightfall, but that distance wasn't enough.
M. used to always bring his wife gifts when he came home.
As he walked ahead of Ayşe on this dark path, he remembered the day he lost his wife in the accident. He remembered the day he killed the man who had taken her life. No matter how cheap it was, his wife would always be happy.
M. blamed himself for his wife's loss. The killer was one of the regime's men who made it look like an accident. Yes, he had taken revenge, but now his wife would never come back.
He never told Ayşe this.
He didn't think he should.
The last thing they ate in their house was hummus.
It was the only food Muhammad could cook.
Every time he picked up the pan, his wife would smile at him with her fingers and wait patiently.