Next Station

Chapter17

For some time now,

An invisible thread of distance had been drawn between Maral and Kaan.

No arguments,

There is no clear reason.

If you ask them,

Neither could offer a convincing explanation.

But something was there—

Something nameless, heavy,

And yet full of longing.

Both of them,

Deep inside, they had convinced themselves.

That this distance was for the best.

Especially Kaan...

His instincts, sharpened by years of security work,

His fear of causing harm or losing Maral,

Gnawed at his mind without rest.

That day, when Kaan had invited Maral

To meet by the seaside,

And she had declined with the excuse of working on her article,

A trace of pain had settled into Kaan’s pride.

But Kaan knew:

That encounter with the old woman—

That strange figure who had whispered warnings into Maral’s ear like a soothsayer—

Had left its mark.

Still,

Kaan had returned to his own logic.

He was certain:

Under no circumstance

Would he ever harm Maral?

Never.

But had Maral, somewhere deep within,

Been frightened by that woman’s words?

Had she, in some quiet place in her heart,

Begin to believe them?

Kaan didn’t know.

He didn’t know that Maral’s father, too,

Had delivered his own heavy, worried warnings to her.

And now,

Both of them were suspended in a silent limbo.

Neither was able to move closer,

Not brave enough to let go.

Their hearts,

In the silence of nights,

In the wet air of the streets,

Silently called out each other's names.

But their steps...

always faltered halfway.

And deep within them,

An unspoken question echoed:

"Perhaps love does not in loud betrayals,

But in that quiet moment

When we fear losing it

More than anything else."

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

An autumn night,

With a light mist and the scent of wet leaves,

Cast its shadow over the half-sleeping streets of Istanbul.

Kaan sat motionless in his car,

A few meters down the street from Maral’s apartment.

His breath fogged up the cold glass, fading as quickly as it appeared.

From the car speakers,

The rough, sorrowful voice of Ferdi Tayfur drifted through the thick air:

"Ben bir tek kadın sevdim, o da sensin..."

("I loved only one woman, and that was you...")

Kaan rested his lifeless hands on the steering wheel,

His gaze wandering through the misty, rain-soaked darkness,

Searching for a light that belonged to Maral.

The window lights,

Like distant lanterns,

Flickered in the fog.

He wanted to move just a few steps forward.

To climb the cold stairs;

To knock on the small door on the second floor;

and say:

"I'm still here...

Silent, unassuming,

But standing entirely for you."

But he couldn't.

Something inside him knew the time had not yet come;

Or perhaps fear—

Fear of destroying something built with such delicate care—

Had pinned his feet to the ground.

Meanwhile,

Maral, in a room filled with the scent of paper and the soft chill of autumn,

She was hunched over her desk.

She was trying to complete her unfinished article about the heart.

But her mind,

Like the dry leaves on the street,

Kept spinning in the wind,

Refusing to settle.

The pen between her fingers had gone cold.

Her eyes,

Without meaning to,

Drifted to the window now and then.

The windowpane was streaked with slow, quiet raindrops,

Like fingers tracing invisible paths.

Something inside her whispered:

"Someone is out there..."

But she didn't want to believe it.

Or maybe she was afraid to believe it—

Afraid that her heart would find no peace again.

The song still played,

Wounded and aching,

Inside Kaan’s car.

Kaan,

Deep in the mist,

simply listened.

His heart,

Like the fallen leaves on the street,

Sank silently under the rain.

It wasn't only love,

Not only longing,

Not only fear.

It was all of them,

Together,

Gathered in the heart of an autumn night.

And amidst the cold mist,

two hearts,

Just a few steps apart,

Each burned quietly in their own silence.

Without knowing:

"Sometimes a distance as thin as mist

Can weigh heavier

Then a thousand miles."

✨✨✨✨✨✨

In the heart of that rainy, mist-laden night,

Maral sat at her desk.

Her hands rested on the half-written pages of her thesis,

But her eyes wandered somewhere far beyond the words and papers.

The gentle sound of rain

Tapped against the window,

Echoing in her chest.

She wanted to focus,

Needed to finish her article about the heart,

Needed to pull her soul out of this chaos.

But she couldn’t.

The words,

Like wet leaves on the street,

Slipped over each other and refused to stay still.

At that moment,

the doorbell rang,

Soft and hesitant,

Breaking the heavy silence of the house.

Maral jumped slightly.

She stood frozen for a few seconds,

Her heart beating in an uncertain rhythm,

As if somewhere deep inside she was wishing—

perhaps...

But quickly, she gathered herself.

With slow steps, she walked toward the door.

When she opened it,

She saw Zeynep, smiling brightly and a little damp from the rain,

And behind her, Sinan, hands buried in his pockets, his gaze filled with quiet worry.

Without any preamble,

Zeynep said:

"We couldn't take it anymore—we had to come."

Maral gave a faint smile;

A smile is more of an apology than a welcome.

She invited them inside.

The smell of rain and cold air followed them into the room.

Zeynep glanced around curiously,

Then, without hesitation, he said:

"It’s been so long since we heard from you, Maral...

What’s going on?

Why did you disappear?"

Maral parted her lips with difficulty:

"Just... busy.

Hospital, thesis, classes..."

She spoke the words,

But even she knew how hollow and lifeless they sounded.

It wasn’t the hospital,

Not the thesis.

The truth was,

Maral had run away.

Especially from her own heart.

Sinan gave a short laugh and said:

"We’ve missed you so much, little sister."

Maral gave them a brief look.

She felt the warmth of their affection,

But something inside her remained frozen.

Outside, the rain had grown heavier.

And within Maral,

The same silent winter continued.

Without snowfall,

Without rescue.

And somewhere in the mist,

On that rain-soaked street,

A man was still sitting in his car,

An aching song with a rough voice spinning from the speakers:

"I loved only one woman, and that was you..."

Maral, holding the warm cup of tea between her hands,

Glanced briefly at Zeynep and Sinan.

She hesitated for a moment,

Then asked softly, almost reluctantly:

"So... how’s Janan?

Have you heard from her?"

Zeynep, who had been wearing a faint, artificial smile until then,

grew serious.

Her gaze lingered on the steam rising from her cup,

And after a short sigh, she said:

"She's not doing well...

Ever since that hostage situation—

From that damned night you got caught up in it too...

She hasn’t been the same."

Maral shifted slightly in her seat,

Feeling the air in the room,

Despite the warmth of the heater,

Turn colder all at once.

Zeynep continued:

"Unfortunately, her news agency's license was revoked.

The office has officially shut down."

The tea trembled slightly in Maral’s hands.

She cast a look full of sympathy toward Zeynep,

But her tongue refused to find any words.

In the heavy silence that followed,

Sinan spoke up abruptly:

"But what’s been eating away at Janan even more?

Is that this time, Kaan didn’t do anything."

Maral looked at him, stunned.

Sinan went on:

"Every time there was trouble before,

Kaan would somehow, quietly,

Step in and help.

He always had her back.

Always found a way."

"But this time...

It’s like he pulled away.

No intervention.

No effort to save the license,

To save the office."

Zeynep said softly, sadly:

"Janan’s heart is broken.

She doesn’t understand why...

She doesn’t know what changed."

Maral lowered her head slightly, without saying a word.

Something heavy settled in her chest.

A mixture of sadness, confusion, and a vague sense of dread.

In her mind, Kaan’s face appeared:

Silent, determined, always protective...

But now, in the face of Janan’s suffering,

He had remained motionless.

Zeynep, with a gentle, compassionate tone, added:

"Maybe he has his own problems...

I heard he’s involved in a massive project down in the southeast.

They’re building a huge highway from somewhere near Şanlıurfa,

Stretching into northern Iraq,

Near the Kurdish border."

"Toll stations,

Strategic zones,

trade routes..."

"It’s a big deal."

Maral listened in silence.

But her mind was no longer in the room;

It had wandered into the muddy, rain-soaked roads of the south,

Through the mist, the rain,

To a man who was perhaps entangled in something far larger than himself.

A man who,

Despite all the distance,

Still breathing quietly,

Somewhere deep within her heart.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The annual Security and Surveillance Equipment Exhibition

It was held at one of the most heavily guarded convention centers in Istanbul.

CCTV cameras and facial recognition sensors

They were discreetly tucked into every corner of the vast halls.

The entrance doors opened only with special ID scans,

And detection dogs moved silently in the shadows.

High-ranking security officers,

Dressed in crisp uniforms adorned with gleaming insignias,

Strolled through booths showcasing groundbreaking technologies:

Microscopic listening devices,

Anti-tracking briefcases,

remote control systems,

And weapons that seemed more like legends than reality.

In one of the sections,

Kaan, Nader, and Tarik

Stood before a booth dedicated to the newest models of concealed handguns.

The booth consultant, a sharp-eyed middle-aged man,

Paused when he spotted Kaan.

He offered a familiar smile and said:

"I've heard you have a collection of the rarest handguns in the world...

From vintage Walther models to limited-edition Glocks."

Kaan responded with a faint smile,

a slight tilt of his head—

Neither confirming nor denying.

With enthusiasm,

The consultant picked up a small, exquisitely crafted pistol from behind the glass case.

And offered it to Kaan:

"This one just arrived.

Light, fast, precise.

I think it would make a perfect addition to your collection."

Kaan took the pistol carefully in his hands.

The weight, the balance, the resting place of the thumb—

He assessed it all silently,

As if he were feeling the notes of a delicate piece of music.

Just then,

Nader approached another officer whose movements carried the faint scent of rivalry.

Wearing his usual calm, slightly dangerous smile,

Nader said:

"What do you say, Kaan?

Shall we have a little competition like in the old days?"

The rival officer chimed in, his voice eager yet faintly challenging:

"You used to win every time...

Let’s see if you’ve still got that legendary speed."

Two classic pistols were brought out from behind the case—

Both identical Beretta 1951s,

Their dark wooden grips and steel frames gleaming under the lights.

The rules were simple:

Completely disassemble the weapon,

Separate all the parts,

And then reassemble it again—

As fast as possible.

A small circle of male and female officers gathered around,

Their sharp, curious eyes watching closely.

The timer started.

Kaan, as always, moved with fluid, practiced precision;

His hands trusted the perfect memory stored in his muscles.

But this time...

For just a fleeting second,

His mind faltered.

A face flashed through his mind:

Maral's disheveled hair,

Her gaze lost in the mist,

The heavy silence of the last rainfall.

His fingers hesitated—imperceptibly.

And that was enough.

The officer across from him,

With the click of the final assembled piece,

Finished first.

All eyes shifted toward Kaan.

Nader stepped closer.

With a faint smile only Kaan could read,

He leaned in and whispered:

"I’ve warned you, Kaan...

Stay away from things that steal your focus.

From things that replace calculation with feeling."

He paused briefly.

Then, his voice dropped lower, cutting sharper:

"You were always my best.

Number one.

The student who never faltered."

For a brief moment,

His gaze locked with the weight of Kaan’s.

Then, with a hint of bitter disappointment,

He added softly:

"And now...

For the sake of a woman...

You're changing your path."

Kaan didn’t answer.

For a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—

His lashes trembled,

And his green eyes seemed to glance at something far away.

But almost immediately,

His expression hardened back into stone.

Nader stepped back,

That slight, knowing smile lingering—

As if the silence itself

It was the loudest confession he could have asked for.

And Kaan was left standing alone;

A classic pistol in his hand,

And a weight in his heart heavier than steel.

✨✨✨✨✨✨

The Hospital Training Session

Around a large table,

A group of medical students — both girls and boys —

Sat in crisp white coats,

Their eyes wide with a mix of excitement and nerves.

The fluorescent lights above

Cast pale reflections across their hair and faces,

Painting fleeting halos on the scene.

In front of each student,

On a sterile white cloth,

Sat a ripe yellow banana.

Dr. Nuran Elbilik stood at the head of the table,

Her face is calm yet commanding.

Her gaze — sharp as a scalpel —

I missed nothing.

With a voice that was soft but resonant, she said:

"Stitching a wound is like writing poetry upon the skin.

Every movement must be deliberate,

Measured."

She tapped her fingers lightly against the table.

"Today,

We practice on something closer to human tissues."

She gestured toward the bananas.

A few students smiled;

Some in amusement,

Some with a childlike eagerness.

Nuran continued:

"Each of you will create an incision on your banana,

Then suture it closed —

Using real surgical thread.

The same care, the same precision,

As if it were a living being."

She let her gaze sweep the room.

"Suturing isn’t just about speed.

It’s an art.

It’s control.

Above all else, it’s a form of respect —

For life itself."

The students got to work.

Maral, whose hands were usually steady and sure,

Began her stitches.

She pressed the needle gently into the banana’s skin,

Her movements are fluid, quick, exact.

But just as she was pulling the thread through,

The needle slipped from her grasp.

Its sharp point, ruthless and cold,

Pierced the tip of her own finger.

A tiny bead of blood blossomed.

Against the pale skin of her hand.

Maral froze for a second.

The pain wasn’t much —

But somewhere deeper,

Something cracked.

Dr. Nuran noticed instantly.

She strode forward with measured steps.

Her voice, quiet but firm, called out:

"Maral."

Every head turned toward her.

Nuran's tone softened slightly but grew even more serious:

"If this had happened to a real patient just now,

We could be facing the risk of infection."

Her gaze, unwavering:

"Precision, Maral.

Focus."

Maral, forcing a small, apologetic smile,

Tried to compose herself.

But Dr. Nuran, without softening, added:

"Even now,

With a single mistake like that,

You could cause irreversible harm to a person.

Or even their death."

Her words cut through the air.

Like the necessary cruelty of a surgeon’s blade.

Maral closed her eyes for a moment;

Not from the sting in her finger,

but from a deeper ache —

One that had taken root somewhere far beneath the surface.

✨✨✨✨✨

In the silence of their separate nights,

Both Maral and Kaan

Reached the same invisible point in the darkness —

A point without words, without comfort, without clear understanding:

They had to return to themselves.

They had to remember

That their lives,

Their dreams,

And the future they had once begun building with trembling but determined hands,

We were meant to be far from this chaos.

Maral, with a heart wounded but still quietly hopeful,

Searched a corner of her mind

For the version of herself she once knew:

The girl who wanted to save lives —

Not lose herself to love.

And Kaan,

Alone in his silent car,

under a rain-drenched sky,

Made a vow to himself:

He could not allow a reckless feeling.

To shake the years of effort, the years of discipline,

The dream he had bled for.

Each of them,

In opposite corners of the rain-soaked city,

Decided they had to grow stronger.

They remembered

They were supposed to reach a destination

Built with both mind and heart —

Not one carved by winds and storms.

And yet...

There was something missing in that decision —

Something trembling, invisible, fragile.

Because of some decisions,

Even when they are right,

Still cracks the heart.

Sometimes, returning to oneself

Means leaving behind

Something that — without permission —

Had made a home in the deepest folds of the soul.

And so,

Through the dark, lonely nights,

Two wounded hearts

Appeared to turn back toward their futures —

But beneath the surface of the darkness,

A silent question drifted between them:

"Can you really walk the path to your future,

When a piece of your heart

Was left behind

Somewhere far away?"