M. sank to his knees, his breath and strength exhausted. His head was spinning, shadows lurking like traps filling the forest, concealing the numerous foundations that clung to the earth. The last light of the day had vanished.
He had his arms tightly clasped across his chest. He tried to control the pain that tore through every nerve fiber and tormenting organ in his body.
What he imagined was nothing more than the effect of the voices he heard behind the mirror.
Every unknown night, they would watch them; the regime's victims would appear before his eyes. His youth had been spent fighting, and the enemy who wanted revenge had killed his life partner.
He would dream of surprising his wife, who was registered with their group, on those nights.
He would dream of spending time together in perfect homes. He would dream of Eid al-Adha, the smell of a sacrificial ram cooking on a large brazier in the courtyard for his wife…
Turkish. They had been detected by their drones; the first bombs were slow, intermittent warning shots. Muhammed was involuntarily pulled from his deep thoughts. Jiyan and Berivan were trying to gather information from headquarters via radio, forced to take shelter in the nearest cave.
Ayşe, on the other hand, was wondering about the state of her Istanbul workshop as the bombs fell.
Her son hadn't touched the canvas; ever since she accepted the job, its inhabitants had been bothering her, carrying on the activities of a wealthy businessman.
A canvas that demanded constant attention but was unwanted, a kind of pet.
A commission. The works on it were fetching good money.
Manage your time. She was at a client's, and her ex-husband had requested an appointment to have his photograph painted, and she was interested in relationships.
There were no absolutes in art, but her ex-husband had always sought out rights and wrongs.
As soon as Ayşe entered the cave, she opened the map, waiting for alcohol-fueled optimism like a false memory.
When she turned back. Looking at it, she thought the map should probably have been examined earlier, but according to those still in the cave, it was new over the radio. They could get the coordinates.
The next day, setting out before daylight, any visual appeal vanished with the sun. A great deal of cold fog hung over the surrounding grass, and Ayşe felt her breath freeze in the air.
On the last night her mother had stayed there, she had left a voicemail for her. "Why don't you answer your phone?
I just want to know how it's done. You're an artist and a master of art. Time needs time, I'm so worried about you, honey."
Her mother always called her that.
Ayşe was the only one who could rescue Ayse from the body.
Ayşe heard a voice from far away.
It was unlike anything she'd ever heard before, so loud and shrill.
They hadn't seen a single animal in hours.
Ayşe was very expressive.
When Jiyan and Berivan reached their destination, she could have killed herself because she was the daughter of a man who had long worked for the regime, and for the separatist Kurdish militia, she was an opportunity for revenge. The only person she trusted was Muhammed, a hired killer. He had not only eliminated her husband's murderer but also the high-ranking members of the organization with bundles of dollars he had obtained from ISIS.
"Don't make a sound," M said.
"Neither ice crackle nor frost sound, Ayse continues rapidly, immersed in whatever warmth she could find, listening to the surroundings for the return of that unearthly voice." He continued.
A light appeared, pointed by Ayşe's feet. Their coats. She threw them off, pushed them away with someone's foot.
She had never felt so tired anywhere.
She could hear the ice crackling and breaking around her like a thin eggshell.
The plastic on the radio felt cold. A deathly stiffness had settled in its battery; they could feel the breath of the Turkish maroon berets.