The whispers Breath
890 Words
Zoya woke up early the next morning. The sunlight was diffused, grey and sleepy, slipping through the curtains like a cautious guest. Her body was still sore from the events of the past few days, but it was something else that stirred her — a sound.
A whisper.
She sat upright in bed. It came again. Not loud — but present. Like someone speaking through the walls. She slowly slid out of bed, barefoot, her nightgown brushing the cold floor. The whisper grew faint, then vanished. Her breath quickened.
Was it just my imagination?
She stepped closer to the wall. Leaned in. Held her breath. There it was again — a moan. A cough. Someone… breathing?
She froze.
She pressed her ear to the cold plaster. Turkish words. Faint. Desperate. “Hayır... Burak... yapma...”
Zoya’s blood chilled.
She jumped back from the wall, heart racing. She glanced around the room. Everything looked normal — the glass table, the velvet chair, the windows slightly open letting in the smell of the Bosphorus. But something was very wrong.
She quickly changed into a deep red short dress and wrapped a silk scarf around her shoulders. She needed to move — find someone — find the source of that voice.
She stepped into the hallway. It was unusually quiet.
---
Zoya carefully walked past the royal hallway, her eyes darting from painting to painting, as if they hid secrets. After crossing the carpeted corridor, she turned down the staircase. Her steps were light, careful. She descended slowly, past the chandelier casting golden reflections, toward the lower kitchen quarters.
In the grand kitchen, four servants were busy preparing breakfast — slicing fruits, heating bread, brewing coffee. The caretaker, a woman in her fifties with greying hair tied in a tight bun, supervised them.
Zoya stood at the door for a second, then stepped inside. The sudden hush in the kitchen made her uneasy.
“Can I help with anything?” she asked in Turkish.
The caretaker smiled faintly. “No, Miss Zoya. Please, sit.”
Zoya nodded and walked to the counter, eyeing a fresh pot of coffee.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she added. “Strange dreams.”
The caretaker looked at her knowingly but said nothing.
Zoya sipped her coffee, then pretended to look around casually. Her gaze fell on a thick wooden door — it was older than the rest, tucked away near the back corner of the kitchen.
She set her cup down. “Where does that go?”
The caretaker’s body stiffened. “That’s just storage. Old cellar. Nothing important.”
But Zoya caught the flicker in her eyes.
---
Zoya waited until the caretaker was distracted with one of the maids. Then, like a cat, she slipped past the kitchen tables and reached for the door handle.
It was locked.
Suddenly, a voice behind her. “What are you doing here?”
Two guards stood near the entrance.
She turned slowly. “I got lost. I was just looking around.”
They glanced at each other. “This area is off-limits. Please return upstairs.”
She nodded, smiled sweetly. “Of course. My mistake.”
As she turned to leave, she stole one last look at the old door.
---
Later that afternoon, Zoya sat by the window in her room, lost in thought. Her mind circled around the whispers, the locked door, the servants’ silence. She felt like she was standing at the edge of something deep — something ancient.
And then, a soft knock.
A tray entered — a warm lunch and a note. No sender.
The note simply read: “Everything you hear is not meant to be understood. Some truths should remain buried.”
Her hands trembled as she held the paper.
---
That night, Burak invited her to the study for dinner. The table was set with candles again. Their meal was lighter — roasted chicken, olives, honey-drizzled figs.
He was calmer now, yet something dark swirled behind his eyes.
Zoya asked, “Do you ever feel haunted here?”
He paused with his wine glass mid-air. “Always.”
Outside the window, Leyla Aslan watched again, her eyes sharp, her fingers trembling on the stone railing.
Suddenly, Cemil appeared behind her.
"What are you doing?" he whispered.
Leyla flinched. “Watching the lovebirds.”
“They’re laughing,” Cemil muttered.
“She has him,” Leyla hissed.
Cemil looked at her and thought, You don’t love him. You hate that someone else has what you never could.
She turned to Cemil, venom in her voice. “Help me get rid of her.”
He didn’t reply. He turned to leave.
“I’ll do it alone if I have to,” she spat.
Back in the study, Zoya laughed at something Burak said. It was small — but sincere. For a moment, she forgot the whispers.
Later, as she returned to her room, Burak remained behind.
Leyla stepped into his path.
“How was your trip to Izmir?” she asked.
He said nothing.
She reached for his face. “You look tired.”
He removed her hand without emotion and walked past her, toward Zoya’s room.
And behind him, Leyla whispered, “You’re mine, Burak. You just forgot.”
Burak’s face never turned.
But deep inside — the shadows stirred again.
- Writer
