Next Station

Continuation of Chapter 7

Maral is in her final year of medical school. Her white coat no longer carries the scent of new beginnings—it smells of antiseptic, stress, and sleepless hospital nights. She's an intern now—caught between patient charts, stitches, and the endless beeping of monitors that sometimes signal life... and sometimes don't.

From her very first days at university, the heart was never just an organ to her.

It was the beginning of everything.

An organ that beats, that breaks, that stops—

And sometimes, with a single decision, a precise incision... starts again.

She fell in love with cardiac surgery.

Not for prestige.

Not for the paycheck.

But for that one moment when everything hangs in the balance—when the line between life and death rests in her hands.

But the path to specialization isn't soft, nor romantic.

The TUS exam, Turkey's fiercely competitive medical specialty exam, stands between her and that dream—like a locked gate.

An exam that calls on hundreds of medical graduates to compete... ruthless, relentless.

Her days are spent in the hospital—ER, pediatrics, internal medicine, surgery...

Sometimes with numb legs from hours of standing,

Sometimes with a mind drained by the weight of decisions that leave no room for error.

And her nights?

Her tiny room glows with the blue light of her monitor—

TUS prep videos playing in loops,

Highlighters bleeding into the margins of thick, dog-eared notes,

The murmur of Turkish and Latin terms mixed with the sound of her own heart, beating louder between the lines.

But the real challenge isn't just multiple-choice questions.

She has to confront her fears.

The anxiety that keeps her up some nights.

A mother who still believes she should have married by now.

A brother barely holding it together, one step away from slipping back into gambling and debt.

And an invisible shadow named Kaan—

A man she's not sure whether she should run from... or run to.

Maral is walking a path that rebuilds her, one step at a time.

This isn't just about earning a title.

It's about standing tall.

It's about giving meaning to the wounds she's witnessed—

And maybe healing the ones she still carries, even if they don't leave scars on her skin.

And she knows: this path demands something.

A decision. A choice. A kind of endurance.

And maybe... it's this very path that will not only shape her career,

But take her to the moment she must face everything she has been—

And everything she still wants to become.

It's not an easy road.

But she's ready to walk it.

A Café in Istanbul

The air at the open-front café still holds the scent of rain-soaked earth. The smell of wet soil mixes with the rising steam of bitter tea, casting a momentary calm over a simple wooden table where two generations sit face-to-face.

Her father, dressed in a suit that's lost its former shine, still sits upright—his posture holding on to the last traces of the man he once was: a respected merchant from another time.

A man who once thrived in the trade between South Korea and Turkey, when the family lived in Seoul—in a spacious home, surrounded by comfort, that now feels more like a distant memory.

Back when Maral attended an international school, long before her heart was scratched by the quiet exile of emotional distance.

Now she sits across from him. Slightly distant. Slightly cold.

Not out of anger—but out of caution.

She inherited his pride, just as she inherited her mother's tired silences.

Her father pulls his gaze away from the steam rising off his cup, as if searching for a word that's slipped away.

He stirs the tea—not for taste, but to buy time.

— "Sinan... I still think if I'd helped him sooner, maybe he wouldn't have gone down that road."

He pauses. His breath is heavy, like a confession that's been stuck in his throat for years.

— "Back then, everything collapsed. When the money goes, people follow.

You... you were the only one who stayed. "

Maral says nothing.

She watches the steam rise and disappear—just like so much else between them, somewhere between memory and the weight of now.

His voice lowers.

— "I'm at peace knowing you're not like Yelda.

Her husband... he was never in love.

He's only still around because she forced herself into his life. She pays for it with silence. She tolerates it. She says nothing. But I know—deep down, it's killing her. "

Yelda, the eldest child of the family and Maral's older sister, had grown up wrapped in comfort and indulgence. Hardship was foreign to her, and perseverance was more like a distant myth. School felt like torture, and at every obstacle, she would retreat instead of fighting.

At twenty, without truly grasping the weight of her decision, she insisted on marrying the first man who crossed her path.

But that marriage, instead of opening a door to the future, led her into a cold and lifeless room. Years have passed, and now Yelda lives in a home devoid of warmth or sound. Her husband was never in love with her; he only stayed because she forced herself into his life. In this imposed silence, smiles have become masks, covering wounds too deep for words.

And every time Maral looked at her sister, she made herself a promise:

"No... my life will never be like that."

Their eyes meet for a moment.

A silence settles between them—heavier than anything either could have said.

— "Nermin... Your mother... she doesn't see me anymore.

After everything... it's like she only exists for herself now.

From that big house, all we've got left is one framed photo... cracked."

Maral wets her lips, but there's nothing to say.

Everything that mattered had already gone unsaid—long ago.

Her father pauses again, this time quieter.

— "Erfan still wants you. He told me if you gave him the slightest sign, he'd walk away from everything. He's not a bad kid... just a little too close to us."

Maral lets out a quiet, wordless laugh.

The kind of laugh that doesn't hide the ache—but doesn't put it into words either.

As if to say: That closeness... that's exactly the problem.

He's silent for a moment, then speaks—not with sadness, but with a bitter kind of clarity.

"You're my daughter.

The one thing I still believe I got right.

Just... be careful.

Don't let your future get lost in the same wrong calculations we made. "

And Maral, without a word, finishes her tea to the last drop.

It's bitter.

But it's real.

It was dusk. The orange glow of the streetlamps flickered against the fogged-up restaurant windows. Maral sat across from her father at a corner table, half-drawn curtains shielding them from the outside world. A soft, old Turkish melody drifted in the background. Neither of them looked particularly at ease, but the silence between them felt like a kind of unspoken truce—maybe even a quiet gesture of reconciliation.

Her father, his face lined deeper than before, set his fork down and glanced at her over the rim of his glasses. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

— "You got your pride from me... Sometimes I think you have even more of it than I do."

Maral didn't smile. She just glanced at him briefly, then looked back toward the window.

He went on, his voice low and husky:

— "You're smart. Strong. And that's the scariest thing for a father... when his daughter is stronger than he ever knew how to protect."

He paused, stirred his tea slowly, the clink of the spoon barely audible over the music.

— "Look at Sinan. My heart aches for him. Therapy's helping, which is good... but I know, deep down... he'll never quite hold himself together the way you do."

Maral asked quietly:

— "Why do you say that?"

" Because I know him. He's my son... but he never figured out how to move forward. And instead of helping, I kept telling him to be strong. Over and over.

But you... you didn't need anyone to tell you. You made yourself strong. Independent. Even from me."

A short silence passed between them. Then he said:

— "And Yelda... you've seen it. Her husband doesn't even look at her anymore. They're just pretending to live. She makes herself small, pays with silence, just to keep him from leaving... but that man... he's already gone."

— "She chose that life, Dad," Maral said quietly.

Her father shook his head, let out a long breath.

— "She didn't choose it. She was afraid. Like most of us are."

His eyes drifted to somewhere far away, like he was flipping through the pages of the past.

" After I went bankrupt... Nermin, your mother, changed. From a proud, graceful woman to someone who tried to buy back her sense of security by spending.

"You have no idea, Maral... how hard it is when your wife looks at you like a failure, even when she says nothing."

Maral pressed her lips together. She didn't want to cry.

Her father leaned forward slightly, laying his hand gently on the table near hers.

"I only want one thing, Maral. I want you not to break. Not like Sahar. Not like Sinan.

Not like me."

Then, his voice softened—like someone confessing something he didn't want to admit.

— "Erfan... he still holds a place for you. You may not believe it, but I know. He's a good kid. Simple, but he really loves you.

He told me... he said, 'If Maral wants me, I'll start over from scratch. Just say the word. Just look at me once.'"

Maral lowered her gaze. Her finger traced the rim of her teacup, absentmindedly. She didn't say a word.

Her father drew in a long breath.

— "I'm not telling you to marry him. I'm just saying... people who truly want you—they're rare in this world."

And at that moment, Maral remembered Kaan's eyes. His silence. His leaving. The fact that he never once said he would stay.

And maybe that's why she said nothing. Not about Erfan. Not about Kaan.

She just said, silently to herself:

"My father's right... but I have my own path. Even if I walk it alone in the end."

In silence, Maral gently pushed her now-cold tea forward. Her eyes weren't on her father anymore. They were in the fogged-up window, on the street outside where people passed by—completely unaware of the knots being quietly tied and untied at this very table.

Her father, noticing her pause, spoke carefully:

— "Maral... Erfan asked me to talk to him. He said he was too embarrassed, said maybe if I stepped in, you might... soften a little."

Maral turned to him slowly—calm, unhurried—but her eyes were no longer guarded. They held no anger, no contempt—only exhaustion. And truth.

" Dad... you said I'm like you. So listen closely.

I don't want anyone out of guilt, pity, or pressure.

Love, commitment, being with someone—that's a choice. Not a debt."

Her voice was soft, but it landed like a velvet-wrapped blade.

" Erfan is a good guy, I know. He's kind, loyal... maybe he'd move mountains for me.

But I... I can't feel that way about him.

I can't lie to him just because my family thinks he's the safer option.

That wouldn't be fair—to him or to me. "

Her father fell silent. He laced his fingers together, as if holding onto something fragile he didn't want to break.

Maral continued:

— If Erfan truly loves me, then he should let me go—without expecting anything in return.

I don't want pressure, Dad.

I want a choice.

Even if that choice... there is no one at all. "

A moment of quiet settled between them. Only the soft clink of a teacup at the next table broke the stillness, as steam curled invisibly in the golden glow above.

Her father exhaled—not in defeat, but in understanding.

For perhaps the first time, he didn't look at her as a daughter to protect... but as a woman standing clearly, firmly, and without the need for intermediaries.

His voice was lower now, hoarse:

— "I just want you to be happy, Maral."

Maral smiled—bitter, but real:

" That's what I want too...

Just on my own terms.

Not the ones everyone else thinks are best for me. "

The hospital.

Maral had just finished her shift. She hadn't even taken off her white coat when the receptionist spoke softly from behind the desk:

— "Doctor, there's a man here to see you. He won't give his name... just says he wants to thank you."

Maral stepped forward, puzzled. In the corner of the waiting area, a man stood quietly, wearing a simple but neat overcoat, a pressed shirt, and polished leather shoes that gleamed with care.

His face was familiar, but something about him had changed—not just his appearance, but the way he stood, the way he looked at her, the way he spoke.

— "You...?"

The old man smiled, bowed his head with respect, and said:

— "I've come to thank you, my dear. I'm the same homeless man who was sitting in the park... the one with infected wounds on his feet. That day, no one even looked at me. But you... you stopped. And from that moment, my life began to change."

Maral stepped closer, her eyes wide with surprise and joy.

— "Oh my God... you... you look amazing! I'm so glad to see you like this.

When can you come in, so I can check your foot again? "

The man chuckled.

— "No need, Doctor. My foot is fine now... I'm fine. I only came to say thank you. I'm not homeless anymore."

Maral paused. Her breath caught.

— "How? I mean... I didn't really do anything."

The old man replied calmly:

— "Your friend... the well-dressed one, with green eyes..."

His smile deepened.

— "He found me a job. I'm now working as a security guard at a big estate. I have a place to sleep at night, food every day, and a small but respectable salary.

And these shoes... he bought them for me too."

He bowed again, his voice gentle and sincere:

— "I just wanted to say thank you, doctor.

You changed my life. "

Maral didn't speak.

The man kept talking, his words filled with gratitude—about warm nights and peaceful meals—

But all she could hear was the pounding in her ears.

Him again.

Kaan again.

That presence that seemed to return with every shadow, every sign, every unexpected turn.

The man was still talking—about kindness, about how one gesture could change a life—

But Maral's mind was far away. Only one thought echoed within her:

" Even when he's not there, he's present.

Even when he's gone, he leaves behind things that cannot be forgotten. "

A quiet pause fell. The old man extended his hand.

" I just wanted to say... there are still people in this world whose smile can change everything.

You were one of them. "

Doctors' Lounge – Evening, after the old man's visit

The golden light of evening filters through half-drawn curtains, falling across the wooden floor and the edge of a metal table. The ticking of the wall clock blends softly with the room's silence.

Maral sits in the corner, still wearing her white coat.

Her phone lies dark on the table. Unmoved. Forgotten.

Her fingers are laced together, elbows resting on her knees.

Her shoulders slightly hunched, as if the exhaustion of the past few days had finally found space to settle in.

Her gaze is fixed on the floor, but her mind still echoes with the old man's voice:

" Your friend... the handsome one, with the green eyes...

He found me a job.

He even bought me these shoes... "

Maral blinks. Lets out a soft sigh.

And in her head, she begins talking to herself—silently:

" It was his trace again.

Unannounced. Quiet. Without seeking recognition...

But exactly where it needed to be.

He never asks. Never explains.

Never step into the spotlight.

He just does what needs to be done—

Right. Precisely.

As if it had always been meant that way. "

" Why does someone know how to 'be there' so perfectly?

And why—amidst all the coming and going—is it his absence I keep looking for,

Only to realize...

he's still here?"

In the distance, the faint beeping of a heart monitor filters through the walls.

Maral shifts slightly, reaches for her phone—

then stops.

Returns her hand to her lap.

" Maybe it's because he feels... safe.

Because when you learn,

You know you won't fall.

Not because of the things he says—

Most of the time, he doesn't say anything.

But because of the way he moves.

The way he sees.

The kind of silence that doesn't carry anxiety...

only presence."

Her eyes close for a moment.

She listens to her own breathing.

Slow. Rhythmic. A little heavier than usual.

" I'm afraid of that presence...

Because I want it.

And that wanting—

That's its own kind of ache. "

Maral doesn't get up.

She doesn't move.

She just stays there. In silence.

And maybe this time—

Just a few minutes—

She lets her longing breathe.