Leaving Home
Iskender’s House, Ourfa, November 1903
Iskender
Iskender lies on his side, listening. He can hear her up on the roof. One, two, three, pause. Four, five, six. The footsteps stop. The skylight creaks open and the room lights up in angular shafts as Khatoun steps inside. She slides the bolt into place and sits on the fourth stair from the top – the one that always complains when anyone steps on it. He wouldn’t have to fix that now. The stairs could rot and drop away like old flesh for all he cared.
He strains his ears. Khatoun is quiet, watching the room from her perch. Listening, as he is, to the huddle of people sleeping on their floor. The smoker’s rumble from his own chest. Stale scraps of lullaby escaping Ferida’s lips. Mertha snoring. Something, somewhere, dripping. Bu
