He left without a goodbye.
No letter. No explanation. Just his boots missing from the entrance and the sheep unusually restless that morning.
Senem cried quietly, like always. Ayşe didn't cry at all. She just sat on the edge of the bed, hands clenched around her apron, lips tight, eyes distant—as if waiting for someone to tell her it was just a mistake.
Ceren didn't cry either.
She felt something colder than sadness: understanding.
Somehow, even at ten years old, she knew her father hadn't left because he wanted to.
He left because he had to.
Later, Büyük Amca returned—this time not shouting. Just speaking fast, with the kind of voice men use when trouble is coming down the road. He and the other uncles gathered in whispers.
Something about debt.
Something about a missing truck.
Something about "Ali made promises he couldn't keep."
And then came the day everything was loaded into a stranger's car. No more sheep. No more tents. No more highland winds brushing her cheeks in the morning.
Ceren sat between her siblings in the backseat, watching the mountains shrink behind them like a memory being erased by time.
Ayşe sat in front, silent the whole ride.
The city was waiting.
And it had no sky.