Istanbul was sleeping under heavy fog that night. Selin had fallen asleep from the weight of emotional exhaustion, curling up on the sofa without even managing to change her clothes. But for Murat, sleep was by now only a human habit he was trying to imitate. His soul burned with the sorrow in Füsun Hanım's voice saying "Mert, my son."
Inside the apartment there was only the ticking of the clock and the suffocating silence of the fog outside. Murat moved toward the dim kitchen light to make himself a coffee. His mind was so full that he had lost the delicate balance between his fingers and objects. He reached for the glass carafe on the counter. His hand closed around it but for a split second — for just one fraction of a moment — his fingers let the matter through. The carafe dropped wit
