Next Station

Chapter 7

Winter has released its final cold breaths into the wet alleys of Istanbul, but it no longer has the strength to rattle the windows. Spring has arrived earlier than usual—softly, silently—not with a storm of blossoms, but with a hidden warmth in the gentle sunlight and the scent of rain-soaked earth.

Istanbul feels restless; it's shed its heavy coats, opened its streets to the sun, and tied its hopes to a breeze that's neither cold nor warm—just a quiet promise of blooming. The trees are still bare, but there's a tremble in their limbs, as if they're dreaming of blossoms.

People walk with lighter steps, smiles linger a little longer, and even the cafés along the waterfront have poured the scent of spring into their cups, ahead of the calendar. The city seems to know: winter is still here, but it's already leaving.

For some time now, Istanbul's evenings have taken on a different hue for Maral. When the long hospital shifts end and the scent of alcohol and antiseptics still clings to her memory, it only takes one street to cross before she reaches her small refuge—a quiet park nestled in the heart of the city, a place where there are no ventilators, no cries of desperation. There, she has an unspoken ritual with Kenan: running. Not for competition. Not for a finish line. Just to let go.

Maral laces up her running shoes, ties back her hair, and with the first few steps, it feels like the weight of the entire day begins to melt off her shoulders. Kenan runs a few steps ahead, or sometimes right beside her—silent, steady, like a metronome syncing with the rhythm of her thoughts.

The evening breeze slides gently through the bare branches. The crunch of dry leaves beneath their feet, the sound of breathing in sync—this is the music of their fleeting escape. Sometimes Maral gets lost in her silence. Sometimes Kenan drops a quiet joke. But most often, both find comfort in the kind of silence only running through a breathing city can offer.

In these twilight runs, something deeper than physical fitness is built. A mind that, hours before, had been under the white glare of the operating room now finds clarity with each step. For Maral, these brief moments are like a long breath—just enough to keep going.

Kaan stood among the branches at the edge of the park, where shadow and sunlight had finally made peace. His gaze was calm and focused, fixed on a quiet stretch of gravel path where Maral and Kenan, after their run, now walked side by side at a slow, steady pace.

Maral's breathing had softened. Strands of hair slipped from beneath her running cap, and her voice—faint but drifting toward him in the breeze—carried both the weariness and relief of exertion.

Kaan, trained and meticulous, could read the subtlest of details even from a distance. The rhythm of footsteps, the angle of a glance, the length of silence between sentences—none of it escaped him. And in all of that, there was something peaceful enough to make him exhale slowly.

Kenan was a good man—Kaan had seen it more than once. He wasn't the type to play games or hide behind smiles. His intentions were clear, his eyes honest. Most importantly, he knew exactly where he stood: a colleague and a friend. Maral, with her signature clarity, had drawn that line early—and firmly.

That, at least, gave Kaan some comfort. He could breathe easier knowing Kenan wasn't a threat.

But Maral...

She wasn't someone you could just watch. Not like the others. You didn't observe her—you regarded her. With respect. From a distance. In silence.

She was like a book that wasn't meant to be skimmed, but studied—understood.

And for all the training Kan had received, for all the operations he'd carried out with precision and control, he still found himself lost when it came to understanding her.

Watching Maral—even from a distance—was something between revelation and suspense for Kaan. In every step she took, in every casual motion of her hands, every slight turn of her face toward Kenan, there was something that pulled his trained, analytical mind off track. And for someone like Kaan, who had spent a lifetime mastering control over every situation, that distraction felt unfamiliar—and dangerous.

He had lived for years among suspicious faces, in the world of shadows and reports. But Maral, even unaware of being watched, meant something else entirely. Her presence was soft, yet heavy. In all the hundreds of images he had studied from surveillance cameras and hidden lenses, nothing had struck him as deeply or as vividly as the way Maral walked after a simple evening run.

He didn't watch her out of suspicion, nor out of duty—but from a curiosity that carried a different color. The kind of silent curiosity that had long been buried deep within him... was now quietly rising to the surface. In silent observation. In unspoken waiting. In moments, he noticed, and no one else.

Maral, in her simple running clothes, her face tired but alive, was something more than just a figure of interest. She reminded Kaan of something he had lost—maybe life itself. Maybe a long-buried dream. Or maybe just the feeling of being present... without mission, without masks.

And that... that was what truly scared him.

Maral and Kenan walked side by side along a path covered in dry leaves and the cool scent of late afternoon. Their steps were slower than usual, their breathing still soft and steady—but now, not from running, but from the weight of thoughts spoken aloud, thoughts that seemed to linger in the air.

They began talking about the upcoming medical specialty entrance exam—the one Maral was preparing for, hoping to match into cardiology.

"Do you think it'll be harder than we expect?"

Kenan glanced sideways at Maral, as if her answer meant more to him than any oral exam coming up.

Maral, loosening the strap of her running cap and brushing back her damp hair, paused for a moment. Then she spoke quietly, almost like she was talking to herself.

" No, not harder... just more precise. Cardiology is that kind of specialty—every mistake means one less heartbeat. "They told us that from day one, remember?"

Kenan nodded slowly.

"You always knew this was what you wanted. Out of all the options... just the heart. Why, really?"

Maral gave a faint smile—one of those tired smiles that spoke more of exhaustion than joy.

"Because when people feel pain in their hearts, they are honest. Fear, hope, regret, love... it all show on their faces. There's no mask left."

She looked ahead, toward the quiet path lined with fading light filtering through the trees.

"I want to be in that space where people are really seen for who they are. Before maybe... there's no time left."

Kenan took a deep breath. Silence stretched between them—not awkward, not empty. A silence that meant understanding.

"You're going to get in, Maral. I have no doubt. With the way you pay attention, how steady you are under pressure... if not you, then who?"

Maral looked at him directly, her voice steady and sincere.

"You'll get in too. Neuro, brain surgery—you're built for it. I'm sure of it. Just... don't let the anxiety knock you off course. "We've come this far because we learned how to walk through the dark."

Just as their conversation faded into a gentle silence, something at the edge of Maral's vision caught her eye. She stopped. Her steps slowed. Kenan halted beside her, following the direction of her gaze.

Beneath the shadow of an old plane tree, next to a worn-out bench that hadn't seen a visitor in what felt like ages, sat an elderly man they had never seen in this park before. His appearance told a story at first glance—of years worn down by hardship, of homelessness, and of suffering that had thinned him to skin and bone.

His shoes were torn so badly that bruised and wounded toes protruded through the seams. The swelling and infected cuts around his nails made Maral wince. The clothes hanging from his body were no longer clothes, really—just scraps of faded fabric, caked with dust. A blanket—or something like it—hung limp around his shoulders, not offering warmth so much as bearing witness to a cold that came from somewhere far deeper.

Maral stepped forward, almost involuntarily.

The man's gaze, tired and distant, was fixed on the ground. But something in his stillness—perhaps that quiet kind of pain—drew her toward him, blocking out the world around her. Kenan stood behind her, silent, simply present.

Maral knelt down beside the man, gently—just as she would beside a patient's hospital bed. Her voice softened, laced with care and responsibility:

— "Sir... are you okay? Do you mind if I help you?"

The man didn't lift his head. The only sound was his breathing—labored, as if each inhale and exhale carried the weight of the world.

There was a moment of silence.

This kind of suffering—silent, raw—wasn't unfamiliar to Maral.

But here, in the open air, with the earth still damp and the spring not yet fully bloomed, it held a different weight.

There were no medical charts here.

No white coats.

Just a human and another human. And a heart that couldn't stay still in the face of pain.

Maral leaned in, examining the man's feet more closely. The infection had clearly spread. His skin was swollen in some places, cracked in others, and an acrid, unpleasant smell rose from the open wounds even at a short distance. Her expression hardened—the familiar look she wore in crisis: focused, quick, without hesitation.

She turned to Kenan, her voice soft but firm.

— "Kenan, can you do me a big favor? Go back to the hospital, fast. Grab a few packs of topical antibiotics, forceps, sterile gauze, saline, zinc ointment or silver sulfADIAZINE—whatever we need to clean and dress infected wounds. And if you could find a clean pair of socks too, that'd be perfect."

Kenan didn't ask questions. He just nodded. His eyes briefly paused on the man's injured feet, then he turned and sprinted toward the park exit.

He knew Maral well. When she spoke like that, it meant a decision had been made. It meant something needed to be done.

Maral turned back and sat down beside the old man once more. Her gaze softened. With the corner of her scarf, she gently wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

— "Help is coming... Do you feel pain? Just hold on a little longer, okay?"

Her voice was a quiet comfort in the middle of a tired, gray afternoon.

The old man still didn't speak, but the corners of his eyes trembled.

Maybe, after days, months—maybe even years—this was the first time someone had sat beside him without fear. Without passing him by.

And Maral, with hands trained to touch the line between life and death, was now ready to tend to wounds long forgotten.

As Maral sat silently beside the old man, her thoughts lingering not just on his wounds but on the pain buried deeper than her skin, a burst of loud, jarring laughter echoed from the other side of the park.

A group of teenage boys—three or four of them—strode toward her with exaggerated swagger. Dressed in fake designer gear, their hair slicked back with gel, phones clutched like trophies, they were the type that loitered around just to show off some half-formed sense of bravado. Maybe for laughs, maybe for attention... maybe even they didn't know why.

One of them, clearly the self-appointed leader, called out in a mocking voice:

— "Aww, look at this—princess feeling sorry for a street corpse? That's so romantic! All we need is a cameraman!"

One of the boys, bold with fake confidence, raised his phone and pretended to record.

Maral didn't speak at first. She simply lifted her head and stared at them—cold, unflinching.

It was the kind of stare that, if you had any decency left, would shut you up before you even opened your mouth. But these boys didn't have decency—they only had cheap adrenaline.

One stepped closer, hand outstretched toward the old man—whether to mock him or push him, it didn't matter. That was when Maral rose, fully and with purpose. She stepped forward, placing herself between them. Her voice was steady, sharp:

— "Take one more step and I swear, I won't wait for a courtroom."

Her fist clenched at her side, trembling—not from fear, but from a quiet, burning rage.

At that moment, she wasn't a doctor, or a woman, or a citizen.

She was simply human, standing in defense of another human—and ready to fight.

Before things could escalate, a voice broke through the tension from behind the group.

Deep. Firm. Serious.

No room for laughter in it.

— "I think it's time you ended this pathetic little act."

The boys turned to see Kaan.

Tall. Dressed in black. Eyes that held shadows.

There was nothing dramatic about his appearance—no threat in words, no raised fists—but something in the way he stood silenced even the loudest of them.

Kaan stepped forward, placing himself between Maral and the boys. He looked only at her.

— "Maral... are you okay?"

She exhaled slowly. Her fists relaxed.

The fire in her eyes was still there, but with him beside her, it burned closely.

The boys, no longer smirking, began to step back one by one. Their laughter died in their throats, replaced by silence.

And as they retreated, Kaan's steady gaze followed them—silent, watchful—until they were completely gone.

Maral was still trying to catch her breath. The anger hadn't left her eyes—it flared in them—but suddenly, something shifted.

In the way she looked at Kaan—something sharper, more focused.

That spark of analysis.

That split-second when her mind broke free from the outside chaos and latched onto something deeper.

She stared at him. Hard. Like pieces of a puzzle had just clicked into place.

— "How were you even here?"

Her voice was calm, but the tone left no room to escape.

— "Every time something happens... you're there. You always show up somehow. That can't be a coincidence anymore, Kaan. Tell me—what's really going on?"

Kaan paused.

His eyes flicked briefly to the old man, then back to her.

He gave a faint smile—the kind that's both disarming and tangled with a thousand unspoken things.

— "That's not the question you should be asking... not suspicion, not theory. Just a thank you, Doctor."

Then, without giving her a chance to push further, his tone shifted—softer now, maybe even a little careful:

— "Instead of interrogating me... maybe you should tell me why you're here, alone, at this hour, sitting with a wounded man in a park that clearly isn't as safe as it used to be.

"You're usually more aware than this... aren't you?"

Maral frowned, her brows drawing together—but the question she'd asked was still alive, still burning beneath her skin.

Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps rustled through the leaves. Kenan appeared, slightly out of breath, clutching a small cloth bag in one hand. His eyes froze for a moment as he took in the scene—an old man wrapped in a blanket, Maral flushed and tense, and a stranger standing at the center of it all.

— "What's going on here?!"

His voice was loud, filled with concern and confusion. He took a quick step forward, his eyes locking onto Maral's pale, shaken face.

— "Maral, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Maral gave a small nod, as if she wanted to say something but was still too wrapped up in the unanswered questions swirling in her mind.

Before she could speak, Kenan turned sharply to Kaan. His brows drawn tight, his voice firm and protective:

— "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Kaan didn't frown. He didn't raise his voice. He simply looked at Kenan, calm and unreadable. A brief silence hung between them—one of those silences where no one's sure if an answer is coming... or a warning.

Then, with a voice low and deliberate, Kaan said:

— "What made you think it was okay to leave your friend alone in the middle of a park, in this situation?"

Kenan, tension pulsing through every step, marched forward and placed the medical supplies on the bench with trembling hands. His eyes locked onto Maral, but then quickly shifted—his head turning toward Kaan, who still stood there silently, calm and unreadable.

Trying to keep his voice steady, though anger clearly rippled beneath it, he asked:

— "This man... who is he, Maral?"

Maral stood caught between two gazes—one that had come from the shadows and saw everything in silence, and one that stood close, demanding answers. For a moment, she hesitated. No response felt right. She couldn't tell the truth, but she didn't want to lie either. And yet, sometimes words escape before thought can catch them.

In a quiet voice, her eyes flickering between Kenan and Kaan, she said:

— "He's... a friend of Sinan's."

That was all. Just that.

And for a moment, the world seemed to pause.

Kaan, who had been standing motionless just a few steps away, didn't frown. Didn't flinch. But something in his eyes dimmed.

Maral's words landed like a quiet blow—not harsh, not bitter, but deep.

"Sinan's friend"... just a few simple words, yet they drew a line around him, labeled him, placed him back into the distance he had almost dared to cross.

Maybe, for Maral, it was just a quick answer—something to ease Kenan's suspicion, a shortcut out of a conversation she herself didn't fully understand.

But for Kaan, it meant something else entirely:

He still had no name in her world.

No place that was truly his.

Not his past, not his presence, not even the silent ways he'd shown up time and again had been enough for her to see him—as him.

Kaan took a slow breath. He didn't smile. He didn't speak.

He just looked at Maral briefly, as if trying to rearrange something inside himself.

Then he took a step back.

And without a word, without saying goodbye, without even waiting for her to look one last time, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees.

Maral froze.

The sound of Kaan's footsteps fading felt like the echo of something slipping away—

Or maybe something that was never hers to begin with.

Kenan, sensing something in the silence, said nothing more.

He quietly turned back to the supplies.

But Maral... her thoughts were no longer on the old man or his wounds.

Now, another wound had settled inside her—

And no ointment or bandage could fix that.

And Maral stood there—between the sharp scent of antiseptic and the damp, earthy smell of the park's soil—still lingering in her hands from treating the old man's wounds. And yet, she had no idea what to do with the ache now crashing against her chest like a sudden wave, stirred by Kaan's quiet departure.

The silence inside her felt like pressure beneath her ribs—heavy, warm, and nameless.

Kaan's presence—always arriving at the right place, at the right time—had left something behind in her heart and mind.

And now, with the way he had walked away, without a word, without a glance... something began to collapse.

With his wordless departure, it felt as if something had been torn from inside Maral.

She told herself, "Now is the time to treat, not to think"—the same phrase she had repeated to herself countless times in the hospital.

But this time, her mind refused to obey. It wouldn't let go. They didn't want to move on.

Kenan, busy unpacking the medical supplies, said nothing—unaware of the storm swirling behind Maral's quiet gaze. Maybe he sensed it was a moment of silence.

Maral bent down to clean the old man's wounds, but her fingers trembled.

Not from nausea. Not from fear.

From absence.