Alina moves through her aunt’s kitchen with practiced casualness. The morning light catches the copper pots she’s purposefully scattered, one still simmering slowly over the low fire – evidence of a helpful niece.
“My Pamuk rose, taking care of dishes without being asked?” Aunt Zuhra teases from the doorway. She lifts the pot lid, checking the contents. “I must say, seeing you so diligent warms my heart. Once we finish here, I’ll start my morning cleaning rounds.”
“Oh, please don’t trouble yourself with our bedroom,” she says, keeping her voice light. “I mean to say, you’ve done so much already. Let me handle it.”
“Nonsense! Work keeps my hands busy and my heart content.” The older woman replaces the lid with a satisfied nod. “You’ve helped enough this morning. I’ll do my room first, then yours.”
When the distant call of herb sellers makes her think of Rayan’s morning rounds, Alina’s hands fumble with a wet plate. The genuine tremor isn’t part of her performance. Nor is the way her gaze keeps drifting to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him passing by. She clings to her practiced demeanor, though each memory of his smile tests her pretense.”
Aunt Zuhra hums as she pushes open the door to the girls’ room, dust cloth in hand. A cream-colored paper pokes from beneath the closet door, its corner catching the mid-morning light. The scent of perfume wafts up as she bends to retrieve it.
“Another one of her poems,” she murmurs, fingertips catching on more folded papers behind it.
Her eyes scan the first lines. “‘Every beat of my heart speaks your name…”
“Rayan?” The name comes out in a whisper. The love letter trembles in her grasp. A strange laugh escapes her throat. “No… it cannot…”
With shaking fingers, she unfolds the second letter. “‘I had not imagined that I would ever experience feelings of fondness for another…'” The same signature. The third: “‘When our paths cross in the village, I find my gaze lingering longer than propriety might allow…'” Again, that unmistakable mark.
Her sister-in-law’s face flashes in her mind – the proud woman’s inevitable hysterics, the shame that would descend on both families. “Ya Allah, what has this cursed girl done?”
The letters and dust cloth slip from her suddenly numb fingers, scattering across the floor like autumn leaves. She stares at them for a stunned moment, then drops to her knees, gathering them up with frantic movements.
“ALINA!” The name tears from her throat, shattering the morning stillness. “Come here!”
“ALINA!”
Aunt Zuhra’s footsteps thunder down the hallway, letters clutched to her chest. She bursts into the kitchen where her niece stands frozen by the stove, the performance of the helpful girl shattering at her aunt’s wild-eyed appearance.
“Explain these!” She thrusts the letters forward.
The courtyard gate creaks. Footsteps cross the yard. But the sound barely registers through their confrontation, like distant echoes from another world.
“Explain what?”
Her husband’s voice slices through the kitchen. Only then does Alina notice his shadow, already darkening the doorway.
The letters flutter from Aunt Zuhra’s grasp. Her stomach plummets as her uncle bends to retrieve one, his weathered farmer’s hands incongruous against the delicate paper.
“These are…” His voice trails off as he reads. The kitchen fills with a terrible silence, broken only by the distant calls of herb sellers. His face darkens like storm clouds gathering over the mountains.
“From Rayan?” The paper crumples in his fist. “That herbalist who thinks himself above his station?”
“Uncle, I—” Her carefully rehearsed defenses crumble as he cuts her off.
“Silence!” He turns to his wife. “Someone must ride to Pamuk. Her father must know.” Then back to Alina, his voice dropping to something far more frightening than a shout. “And you. You’ve brought shame into my home. When I return—”
He doesn’t finish. He strides out, purpose in every step. Through the window, the young woman watches him heading toward Rayan’s house, the crushed letter still clutched in his fist.
Only then does real panic override her performance. “No,” she whispers. “No, no, no…”
The kitchen door slams behind him. Alina collapses against the counter, sobs wracking her body while her aunt hovers uncertainly. Keep crying, maintain sympathy… But that door slam echoes in her mind. Ya Allah, she’s never heard uncle so angry. What if he actually…
Her tears still fall, but her expression shifts. Her body tenses mid-sob, hands freezing in their theatrical wringing. He wouldn’t… but the way he looked at those letters… Rayan doesn’t deserve…
“I have to—” The words catch in her throat as she suddenly straightens, tears forgotten on her cheeks. She pushes away from the counter. “I must stop him!”
Aunt Zuhra stumbles back, startled by the sudden movement. Her scarf slips as she reaches for the young woman’s arm. “Child! You can’t possibly—”
“I mean to say, he’s too angry, Aunt!” she cuts her off, already moving, wiping her sleeve across her face. Her body angles toward the door. “Someone must calm him before—”
The steam from the forgotten simmering pot curls in the air as she slips past the older woman. Her clothes rustle as she grabs her headscarf from its peg, prayer beads clicking against each other. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears as she takes quick steps toward the door.
The matron makes one final grab, missing as her niece hastily wraps the headscarf. The door flies open, giving the worried aunt’s shocked face one last glimpse.
“Qizim, wait—!”
Ya Allah, let me reach him in time…
She bursts into the street, her breath coming in quick gasps. The afternoon sun blinds her for a moment as she scans the road, looking for her uncle’s familiar figure. But the street stretches empty before her – he’s vanished like water into sand.
A sharp intake of breath catches her attention. There, in the neighboring doorway, stands Mehrigül, her dark eyes widening at the sight of a famous merchant’s daughter running like a common street child. The woman’s hands pause in their work of hanging peppers to dry, her expression a mix of shock and curiosity.
She pats down her silk tunic with both hands, forcing an embarrassed smile. A rich merchant’s daughter must maintain appearances, after all.
“Assalamu alaykum, Sister Mehrigül.”
“Wa alaykum assalam.” The older woman’s hands pause above her peppers. “Such haste on this fine day? One might think you’re chasing after someone.”
“The market calls.” She offers a practiced smile, nodding a bit too quickly. “My aunt requested a specific spice blend before sunset.”
“Ah, but surely your uncle could—”
“Ya Allah, the hour grows late. Do excuse me.” Her smile strains at the corners. She strides down the street, measuring each step against her uncle’s possible interference.
Continuing down the street, her pace now properly dignified despite the panic clawing at her chest. Each measured step carries her further from her uncle’s trail, but she can feel the neighbor’s gaze boring into her back. By sunset, these letters exposed to the village would spark endless gossip – the question is what version they’ll hear.
She turns the corner toward Rayan’s house, her fingers twisting in her sleeves, hidden from view. Somewhere ahead, her uncle carries those letters, her carefully laid plans transforming into something far more dangerous than she’d intended.
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