CHAPTER 1 – The Murmur of Silence
"Some wounds are seen not with the eyes, but with the heart."
The calendar marked the year 2025. It was one of those sweet spring mornings. The Mediterranean sun had just begun to sip the horizon of Dalaman. The murmur of silence drifted through the windows of the houses like a lullaby. On the top floor of a shuttered house, whose terrace overflowed with flowers and overlooked the entire street, someone had spent the night at her desk: Meyra.
Lately, dreams that resembled one another had become more frequent. She kept hearing the same voices at night—a child calling out to her, humming a song. Pushing the questions in her mind aside, she began to scribble something on the middle pages of her black-covered notebook. Unbeknownst to her, her drawings, like her writings, had started to darken.
During her time at the conservatory in Istanbul, she had lived through many beautiful stage experiences. She had worked with successful mentors and collaborated with artists. Now, all of those memories had been squeezed into pages lying before her, buried deep within dusty shelves.
Her eyes closed for a moment. Her breath became uneven. She recalled the day she participated in the "Your Stage, Your Song" contest shortly after graduation. She still hadn't recovered from the betrayal—when her close friend used her composition without permission, leading to her disqualification. The setbacks that followed had pushed her back to Dalaman, to her family, and distanced her from her profession.
As soon as she opened her eyes, Meyra rushed to the kitchen. She brewed the fresh coffee her mother had bought the day before and stared at her to-do list. It was a habit from childhood—writing every step down on paper. Just as she took the last sip of her coffee, her mother's voice shifted her focus.
"Meyra, there you are. Hana called again—she couldn't wait when she couldn't reach you. She's very excited. There's going to be a cultural event in two days, and she asked if you could perform."
"Hana… She never gives up. Even back when I was a student, she'd invite me to every event. Thanks to her, we even made two albums. It's as if she made a promise to always hold my hand, no matter what."
As Yeda watched her daughter curiously for an answer, Meyra's father appeared at the door.
"This could be good for you, Meyra. You've been here for a year. I'm content—you're home, you're with us. But I also know how happy you are on stage. You should take this opportunity."
Meyra said she would think about it. When she had been to Japan before, she had made a list of places she wanted to revisit. As the family enjoyed lunch in the garden, she talked to them about the map.
Turning around, her eyes landed on a page where the lyrics of her first song were written. She had composed it while eating mochi in Kyoto. Her parents noticed the shift—questions filled her expression, as if answers were written across her face. In moments like this, Meyra would always change the subject. This time was no different. As she praised her mother's famous radish salad, a video call appeared on the screen.
"Asumi is calling. We have 34 minutes until class—he's probably getting impatient. What a sweet boy," said Yeda.
"Mom," Meyra said with delight, "have you started teaching again?"
"Yes," Yeda replied. "I finally feel ready. Hana asked me too, so I agreed." "Well, now this tea tastes even better," said Altuğ. As Yeda answered the call, a cheerful voice filled the garden. Though he couldn't yet speak Turkish clearly, Asumi's adorable effort made everyone smile. "Meyra, look! The event in two days will be here. We'll fly kites too!" When Meyra saw the poster, a cold sweat covered her body, and she froze. It was the exact same place she had seen in her dream—the place where she had heard the voice of her twin brother, Maran, who was first declared missing, then presumed dead. The ache that had echoed from her ears into her heart now had a form. She didn't remember much, but the stories she had been told had etched themselves into her memory. This place… it was on that poster. Meyra had made her decision—even she didn't realize what was about to come from her lips.
"Aww," said Meyra. "That's beautiful. I'll be there too. Maybe we can build a kite together?" Asumi started calling for his mother in excitement. Within seconds, Hana was on the screen.
"Meyra, I can't tell you how happy I am that you accepted my invitation this time. I'll be there to welcome you." Meyra smiled, though inside, her emotions were somersaulting in every direction. As she walked toward her room, she noticed that the flower she had planted in the garden recently had wilted—but from a single stem, two buds had bloomed. It seemed hope was determined to show itself.
While riding her bicycle through the streets of Dalaman in the late afternoon, she felt it—the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Perhaps it was a remnant of those days when her father was still on duty. Back when he served in the Air Force, he would take her to training camps and give her lessons she never forgot.
"Stay calm. If you act without thinking or planning, you'll be the one left behind," he had once said during a drill. Her fingers moved to the watch on her wrist. She sent her father her location. Running wasn't a solution. She stopped the bike. From her pocket, she pulled out a small candy and placed it in her mouth. She couldn't remember why, but sweets always seemed to help during moments like these. As the sugar melted, it was as if an invisible voice whispered comfort in her ear, wrapping her in a sweetness she couldn't quite name.
Moments later, a light appeared ahead. Her father. He looked worried. But why? "If my father is silent and moving fast, it means things are getting complicated," she whispered to herself. He handed her a helmet.
"We're going home," he said. Without making him say another word, Meyra got onto the motorbike. They took a busy route back. As the bike entered the garage, her father glanced around through the mirror one last time.
It was clear.
Midnight had fallen. Meyra asked what was going on but received no clear answers. Maybe after Maran, her family had grown cautious—suspicious of everything. For her parents, this was serious. Perhaps the day for a long-delayed reckoning had finally come.
"Why are we living through all this again, after so many years? Will this cycle always follow us?"
Altuğ didn't know how to explain the answers he hadn't fully formed in his own mind.
As Meyra flipped through an old photo album in her room, something caught her eye—a family photo she had never seen before. "When did this get here? I'm sure I've never seen it. Where even is this place? Two bows and an arrow… it looks like the camps we used to visit when I was a kid. But this child… isn't me." She turned the photo over. A short handwritten note: "Whispers of the silent sea." Before she could make sense of it, her father's voice startled her. "Are you getting ready? I've bought your ticket."
She slipped the photo back into the album. She didn't want to upset her family with questions. She trusted them. They never kept anything from her. She nodded and smiled.
"Then we have a gift for you," Yeda said, appearing at the doorway filled with her sketches. She handed the box to Altuğ.
"For your birthday," he said. Meyra opened the box. An antique necklace, adorned with a sakura motif. The moment she touched it, she felt a tremble in her heart. She placed it around her neck.
"Then let's take a memory photo with this beautiful family of mine," she said, reaching for the camera on the shelf.
"You were always like this as a child, trying to capture every moment," her father said, leaving the room.
Her mother, wiping away silent tears, tried to speak:
"If you need anything, call out. I'll be in the kitchen."
Meyra had finished packing her list of things to take. She wasn't going away for long, yet something felt strange. Some moments of peace leave the body like autumn leaves when their season ends.
At sunrise, her footsteps paused in front of the blooming flower—one white, one red. She called it her "hope flower." She watered it one last time, as her mother whispered prayers behind her.
At the airport, her father hugged her tightly. "Your voice is like a spark in the dark—it lights our path. No matter what happens, you will always be our Meyra."
"And you heal our hearts," her mother added, hugging her just as tightly.
Meyra's eyes shimmered. To be loved and understood—it was sweet, comforting. Along with her bag, she now carried courage and hope. As she walked toward gate 34, the closing doors behind her were not an end—but a beginning. The keys to the past were unlocking. And Meyra had just added a layered title to her story:
"Sometimes, pain is carried by faith alone."