Introduction (in the author's voice):
Some stories don't begin with words.
They begin with the light of an afternoon,
an old smell,
or a silence—that suddenly makes you realize that you are not alone.
This novel was not written to give any surprises.
No one runs here, no one shouts.
Time moves slowly here,
and every footprint leaves a mark on your mind.
What I have written may not be the story of my life—
but I know that it has walked through me.
If, while reading, you remember an afternoon of your own,
a fear of your own,
or an unspoken word of your own—
then this book is worth reading.
Chapter One
Where the afternoon was a little quieter
The afternoon was strangely quiet.
Such silence is not usually seen in this part of the city.
The bell of a rickshaw, the distant whine of a van, the radio of a tea shop—all together, the afternoons here always speak.
But that day, it was as if someone had suddenly removed the words.
I was standing in front of the house.
An old two-story house.
The limescale had lifted and there were countless cracks in the wall—as if the wall itself had stopped trying to say something.
The iron gate was half open.
When I put my hand on the gate, I felt a strange cold—unusually cold, as if the sun had not reached there.
No one says the name of the house.
There is a name written on the post office paper, but when people call by name, they recognize the place—people recognize this house by their silence.
I don’t know why I came back again.
Fifteen years ago, I had left after crossing this gate.
It was still afternoon.
The light was still falling like that—but that day the light was in a hurry, today’s light seemed to be standing still.
As soon as I entered, the smell of unripe mangoes and damp wood came to my nose together.
I have not forgotten this smell.
Some smells are like memories—they don't respect time.
A layer of dry leaves on the balcony floor.
A soft sound as I stepped in—not a knock, as if someone was coughing very softly.
I stopped.
In this house, sound means questions.
Light is pouring into the room through the window.
The window sash is half open—not exactly as it should be, but not closed either.
The curtains are moving, but there is no wind.
I know for myself—this feeling is not fear, but suspicion.
The room on the right used to be my father's.
Standing in front of the door, something gripped my chest.
How many afternoons, how much silence, how many unsaid words are on the other side of this door—I know.
As I reached for the door, I remembered,
The last time I entered this room,
Father wanted to tell me something.
He didn't.
He just stared—
That look was like a question, not like a complaint.
I didn’t understand it that day.
Today I understand—some things are left for the time being.
As soon as I entered the room, I saw that everything was in its right place.
The bed, the cupboard, the table—everything.
Only the person was missing.
An old diary on the table.
The pages were yellow, torn at the edges.
I didn’t open it.
It takes time to open some things—just not courage.
The clock was still in the corner of the room.
The time had stopped at 4:17.
Did this time change everything?
Suddenly I felt that I was not alone.
This feeling was irrational—but very clear.
As if no one was behind me, nor was it completely absent.
I looked in the mirror.
I wasn’t shocked to see myself—
Rather, I felt that the mirror didn’t recognize me.
Far away from the balcony, the call to prayer for Maghrib came.
The sound is soft, but it has a certain weight to it.
This time between day and night always asks—
Where are you standing?
I stood by the window and looked out.
The street is empty.
But not exactly empty—
There are some voids, which even if they are full, are not visible.
Suddenly, a sound comes from the room downstairs.
Very light.
No one is walking, nothing has fallen.
The sound is like—the mistaken impression of someone’s presence.
My throat went dry.
I didn’t call out.
It’s not right to call out names in this house.
I just stood there.
And then I realized—
I didn’t come here to find answers.
I came to feel something,
that had been calling me for so many years.
But the question remained—
Why has this house been silent for so long?
And today, why does it suddenly seem—even after the silence, there was someone?
Chapter Two
Where Father's Things Learn to Talk
The house suddenly changed before nightfall.
The walls that had seemed harmless in the daylight, in the blue shadows of the evening, seemed to make their inner lines clear. The cracks were no longer cracks—it seemed like they were the marks of an old writing that time had not been able to erase. The darkness that had gathered in the corner of the balcony was slowly creeping into the house, as if it had become accustomed to it without asking permission.
I stayed in my father's house.
Maghrib was over outside. I was always afraid of the silence that came after the distant call to prayer stopped. This silence was not emptiness—it was waiting. No one knew what waiting was.
The diary on the table had not been opened yet. As soon as I placed my hand on the paper, I felt it—not cold, not hot. As if someone's body heat had been stuck here for a long time. I knew that once it was opened, it would never be the same again. Reading some things means letting new questions enter you.
My father's pen next to the diary.
The nib is worn, but the ink is still there.
It seemed that he didn't finish writing—he stopped halfway through writing.
I took the pen in my hand. Strangely enough, as soon as I held the pen, I remembered the way my father's hand looked. He would hold the pen at a slight angle, as if the words didn't want to be straight—they had to bend a little.
Suddenly, I remembered an afternoon from my childhood.
I was sitting at my desk. It was raining outside. My father was standing by the window. I wanted to ask something—but the question got stuck in my throat. My father didn't look at me that day. He just said,
"Not all questions have answers."
I had neglected that saying for a long time. Today I understand—not having an answer and hiding an answer are not the same thing.
Walking inside the house, I stopped in front of the cupboard. The cupboard door was unlocked. Dad had a way of life—he didn't lock anything. It was as if he believed that if people wanted to know, he couldn't be stopped.
Inside the cupboard were clothes, old files, some letters. The letters were tied—with a separate thread. There were no addresses on the envelopes. Just names—some familiar, some not at all.
As soon as I picked up an envelope, I felt uneasy. I had seen this name somewhere before—but I couldn't remember where. Memories often play hide-and-seek on purpose.
I hadn't opened the letter.
Not yet.
Under the cupboard was an old radio. There was no battery, but when I turned the dial, I heard a kind of crackling sound. The sound wasn't from the radio—it seemed to be coming from inside the wall. I stopped.
In this house, noise is not a misconception.
I looked at the door. The door was closed, but not completely. The darkness of the corridor was entering through the gap. That darkness was not static—it seemed to be slowly taking over.
I remembered the ground floor.
We were told clearly in childhood—you can't go to the ground floor. The reason wasn't stated. People mean the most when there's no reason.
I once dared to ask,
"Why?"
Dad looked at me that day.
For a long time.
Then he said,
"If all the doors are open, people can't survive."
I didn't understand that sentence then. I still don't fully understand it.
Suddenly, that voice came from downstairs again.
This time it was a little clearer.
No one was walking—rather, it felt like someone was stopping.
I went to the window. Night was falling outside. The street lights were on. The light was trembling. Just like Dad's eyes used to tremble—time without saying anything.
Suddenly, it seemed to me that time in this house didn't move properly. Some moments advanced, some stopped. Maybe that's why Dad's clock had stopped at 4:17—the time that couldn't move any further.
I turned back to the table. I placed my hand on the diary. I opened it.
There was no date on the first page.
Just the writing—
“If anyone ever reads…”
The next line was incomplete.
The ink was light.
My hand was shaking.
I didn’t turn the page.
This incompleteness was enough to understand—Father was writing to someone, but that ‘someone’ might not be me. Or it might be me—the identity that hadn’t been formed yet.
A clear sound came from downstairs this time.
The sound of pressure on wood.
Once.
Twice.
I held my breath.
This fear is not unfamiliar.
This fear is not of a presence—
This fear of acknowledging it.
I understood that there was no one in this house—
yet there was someone.
And that ‘someone’ might never have left.
He had simply stopped talking.
The question kept running through my mind—
If Dad was silent,
then who was he trying to protect?
himself,
or someone—whose name was never mentioned?
Chapter Three
The Ground Floor Stairs, Where the Light Stops
I stood in front of the stairs for a long time.
The ground floor stairs are not inside the house—and not outside either. They descend from a corner of the balcony, as if they were deliberately kept separate. Daylight does not reach there properly. Not after dusk. The steps of the stairs are concrete, but their color has changed with age—from gray to black, from black to an unfamiliar color that cannot be given a name.
I knew that the decision to descend these stairs was not sudden.
It was made a long time ago.
Today is just the implementation.
As I reached out and grabbed the railing, I felt it—not cold, but indifferent. As if it had not held anyone, not stopped anyone for many years. I took the first step down. A soft sound under my feet. Not very clear—the sound seemed to confirm its existence.
The second step.
The third.
With each step down, the sounds from the room above receded. It was as if the upper part of the house was slowly denying me. The air became heavy. The air here also had a smell—the smell of old paper, wet earth, and something that had never seen light.
I stopped as soon as I reached the bottom.
The ground floor had once been a living space—that was clear. There were signs of windows on the walls, but no windows. Here and there were stains from curtains, here and there were loose nails. The light came from only one bulb—and that too was not burning properly. The light trembled, as if it was hesitating—whether to burn or not to burn.
In this light, the place was not unfamiliar—it was forgotten.
I could understand that there was something here that was not supposed to be there. And there was nothing that could be grasped and said—this is it.
A room on the right. The door was half open. As I put my hand on the doorknob, it trembled—not the door, but some memory inside me. I pushed the door open.
As soon as I entered the room, I felt like I had been here before.
When?
How?
With whom?
There is no furniture in the room. Only an old mat, folded in a corner of the floor. Light stains on the walls—touch of hands, or wounds of time, I can't tell. A gap closed with bricks in place of the window, but still the wind comes in. There is no relief in this wind.
I closed my eyes.
Suddenly I remembered a voice—
Not very clear, but very close.
"It's better to be here..."
Who said this sentence?
Father?
Or myself?
As I stood in the room, a strange pressure formed in my chest. This pressure was not fear. This pressure—like the unease that comes before recognition.
Something was lying on the floor of the room. I bent down. A small metal box. Rusty. The lock was broken. When I opened the box, I found some papers inside—torn, wet, half-written.
Only one sentence—
"Even if I were here, no one would see me."
My hand shook.
Whose sentence is this?
Why is it here?
I put down the box and stood up. This room doesn't tolerate long periods of time. It doesn't let people stay—it just lets them come, doesn't let them understand.
I came out.
Standing in the middle of the ground floor, I realized now—this place wasn't made for hiding. It was made for forgetting. And trying to forget creates the greatest memories.
Suddenly, there was a sound behind me.
I turned around.
There was no one.
But the sound was real.
When did we start accepting the idea that there could be sound even when there was no one?
I looked at the wall and saw an old calendar print there. The year couldn't be made out. Only the date—17. That number again.
4:17.
The 17th.
Are the numbers a coincidence?
Or had Dad's watch stopped at this time on the ground floor?
I looked up at the stairs. The light above could be seen—but it was very far away. It seemed to me that if I went up now, this place would no longer call to me. But the call stopping did not mean the death of the question.
I looked again into the darkness of the ground floor.
There was someone here.
He lived, breathed, waited.
But no one had included him in their story.
Had my father protected him?
Or hidden him?
I understood that the answer to this mystery was not a sudden discovery. It would reveal itself slowly—just as people want, until someone heard him.
A light sound came from above.
The creaking of the wood in the house.
Or the footsteps of an old memory.
I took a step toward the stairs.
Then I stopped.
Because for the first time, the question became clear—
If there was someone here,
why was he only here?
And the biggest question—
Was he ever allowed to go up?
Chapter Four
A Name That Wasn’t Spoken
After I came up from the ground floor, I didn’t do anything for a long time.
I didn’t walk inside the house, I didn’t go into any room, I didn’t even look out the window. I just sat—on a wooden chair on the porch. Night had fallen completely. There was a moon in the sky, but no light. It was as if permission was needed before the light could shine on this house.
I could understand that the darkness of the ground floor had come up with me. It hadn’t changed places—it had settled inside me.
Suddenly it seemed to me that in this house, names were more terrifying than words.
Because words stop,
but names don’t stop.
I went back to my father’s room. The diary was still on the table, as I had left it. It seemed that he wasn’t waiting for me—he knew I would return. That’s how some writings are, they don’t choose their readers; they just know who needs to be caught.
I opened it again.
This time I didn’t stop at the first page.
The pages are not dated. The handwriting is familiar—moderate, slightly slanted, as if each word was carefully placed. But there is an unsteadiness in the writing. Sometimes the sentences are unfinished, sometimes they stop abruptly. It seems that he was writing at a time when his thoughts were not safe with himself.
My eyes stopped at one place.
Not the whole name.
Just one letter—
“m”
The letter is written very small. As if hidden.
There is nothing next to it—no explanation, no context.
I turned the page.
In another place—the same letter again.
This time a little larger.
Below it—
“He wanted to stay.”
As soon as I read this sentence, a void formed in my heart. “He wanted to stay”—I suddenly understood how much request, how much helplessness, was hidden in these three words.
I don’t know why, but this “m” didn’t scare me.
Rather, it felt like—this letter had been holding its breath for a long time.
At the end of the diary, another incomplete sentence—
“Okay if—”
Nothing more.
The page was blank.
I closed the diary. The sound of breathing inside the room suddenly became very clear. Not my own—this house’s.
I stood up. I went to the cupboard. I took out those letters again. I looked at the envelopes carefully this time. In the corner of one, written in very light pencil—the first letter of a name.
“M”
This is not a coincidence.
But what, it is still unclear.
I stood by the window. The street lights were shining outside, but this light did not want to pass through the window glass and enter. My reflection was in the glass—but that too was incomplete. Darkness behind my head, light on my face. It felt like I myself was divided into two.
Suddenly I remembered, as a child I had asked my father once—
“Was there anyone in our house before?”
My father was silent then.
For a long time.
Then he said,
“Not everyone stays, some just stay.”
I didn’t understand the meaning of the words at that time. Today I understand—staying doesn’t mean staying. Staying means being stuck in someone’s story.
That room on the ground floor flashed before my eyes again. The folded mat. The stains on the wall. The metal box.
“Even if I were here, no one would see me.”
What if there was a name next to this sentence?
I sat down on the chair, trembling. Questions were tangled in my head. Was my father hiding someone? Or was he hiding a truth that, if told, would make this house no longer a home?
The night grew darker. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The sound was dragging, as if it was also looking for something.
I realized that this ‘m’ was not a full name. It was a beginning. An incomplete identity. The last trace of the man who had slowly faded away in the silence of my father.
And now I stand before that trace.
The question slowly crept into my mind—
Does a name that has never been spoken,
really disappear?
Or does it wait—
for someone to read its first letter one day?
