One Tuesday, a voice drifted over the pier—not a memory, but a real, baritone resonance. A street performer had set up near the square, singing the lyrics of Barbaros and Yaşar.

Selim stepped forward, closing the distance the years had created. "There always was," he replied.

Years ago, he had danced on this pier with Elif. There was no music then, just the rhythmic slapping of waves against the pillars and the distant laughter from the tavernas. Elif had leaned into him and whispered, "Is there anyone else who sees the world the way we do? Is there a love as quiet but as heavy as this?"

He didn't need to call her name. The song did it for him. As the final notes of the duet faded into the evening air, Elif turned. Her eyes, still the color of the deep sea after a storm, found his.