Now, Xece was saying everything Leyla couldn't. The lyrics spoke of the winter that settles in the soul when a loved one departs, of the roads that grow longer and the houses that grow emptier.

From the weathered speakers above the counter, the first acoustic notes of a guitar drifted through the room. Then, Xece’s voice emerged—velvety, haunting, and heavy with a plea that felt personal. “Gitme...” (Don't go.)

The song filled the gaps between Azad’s heartbeats. He thought of Leyla. He thought of the way she had looked at him that afternoon by the Tigris River, her eyes reflecting the same amber hue as the setting sun. She hadn't said a word when he told her he had to leave for work, for a future, for survival. She had simply turned her gaze to the water.

The rain in Diyarbakır didn’t fall; it mourned. It washed over the ancient basalt walls of the Sur district, turning the dust of the day into a slick, dark mirror. Inside a small, dimly lit café tucked away in a narrow alley, the air smelled of cardamom tea and damp wool.