A Familiar Face from the Past

Sometimes, days that begin with hope end in despair. But rarely do days that begin in despair end bathed in light. Today, I believe, was one of those rare days. For the first time in a long while, I found myself excited to speak, to tell. Perhaps it was the listener. Because people speak only as much as they feel understood. And I—thank the earth and the skies—do not know how to be silent.

Since my aunt introduced me to someone who truly listens—not just hears—I've been sending letters to her every week. Yes, I used to avoid meeting her. I, who didn't even want to see my own mother, how could I possibly speak to anyone? How could I believe someone would listen to me, when I couldn't even bring myself to tell my mother everything?

But that's not how it turned out. For the first time, someone listened to me with warm, sincere love. I haven't seen her yet. And that's the miracle: someone wanting to listen, unafraid to show it, caressing me with her words instead of crushing me beneath them. If someone can do that even from afar, why are those closest to us so incapable of giving us the same? Why do we always learn love too late, or in the wrong way? Honestly, I will never understand.

Maybe that's why my aunt said the cure was no longer in the mountains of Karsis and called me to her, to Keralin. And yes, I'll admit it. In the days I've stayed here, I've missed Karsis deeply. But lifting my head from where the memories lived has made me think—so much that I've nearly gone mad.

These near-mad states must have seemed familiar to my aunt, for she introduced me to a woman named Laya, whose words hold the power to heal. I had never been so close to a woman before. At least, not close enough to exchange letters. Now, this woman is preparing me to come visit her. She says that to be ready to speak, I must first know what to say. So I write. Every day. Can you believe it? That writing might one day heal me. I don't believe it… and yet I can't help but hope.

Dear friend, My reflection, You and I have been sharing silent, sleepless conversations in the night for a while now. But today is unlike our other talks. Today, I want to tell you about something that moved me deeply—something joyful, at times dark. I can't wait to begin. Yes, yes, I'm starting.

Dear friend, Today I want to tell you how I met Amine—the girl whose name I once refused to even mention, but who is the reason behind everything.

Sometimes, life feels like a single moment. Like a breath, like the touch of wind—it settles in your chest. My moment... was in Karsis. Karsis... neither modern nor ruined, a place where the old and new clash. For us, it was simply our homes, our streets, and that one moment. The story of that moment.

Years ago, when I stood beneath that tree, my mind was clouded. That tree was not just a tree. We would tie our wishes to its branches—our hopes, fears, and desires clinging to its limbs. My wish that day rose from a little girl's heart—but it carried an enormous emptiness.

A few days earlier, behind the granary outside the village, I saw a small girl knee-deep in mud, covered in dust. Her name was Yasmin. I later learned she belonged to a forgotten family—one no one spoke of, whose name had been erased.

Let me start from the beginning, dear friend. When the last footsteps faded from Karsis' streets, I walked to the only place I could call my own—behind the granary. A place no one knew. There, no one asked who I was. I didn't shine myself up or dress to impress. I simply sat in silence and watched the stars late into the night. The moon was beautiful that evening, and just as I was about to sit down, I heard rustling behind me.

And what did I see? A small girl, struggling to hide her body beneath torn clothes and trembling hands. Her breath came in short gasps. Her hair—a shade of red I'd never seen before. At first, she hadn't noticed me, but the crunch of my step drew her gaze.

When she lifted her head, I saw her eyes were greener than mine, filled with pain yet to be lived, stories yet to be told. I saw it in the wide, breaking pupils of her gaze.

That silent fear she carried— it seeped into my bones like a forgotten wound the town chose to bury. She didn't run, but she shifted back and forth, unsure. Her hands trembled endlessly, but her silence spoke more than any voice could.

She was just a little girl. Her face buried in dirt. Her dress was in shreds, her skin scratched. And those eyes… The eyes of someone long disconnected from the world.

I approached slowly. I didn't say, "What's your name?" I didn't say, "Are you okay?" I simply knelt down and waited.

She kept glancing behind her, not at me. She shivered. Then, suddenly, she began to cry. Silently. As if a scream was stuck in her throat, so afraid even to cry.

Her presence touched only me, in that moment. I had never comforted anyone before, not even my mother had cried beside me.

I reached out and offered her a lily. She hesitated, then took it.

> "I'm Yasmin," she said, unafraid, free of terror. "I'm Aleda," I replied.

I remember staring at her a moment longer, then running away without looking back. The next morning, Yasmin was gone. No matter where I looked, it was as if she had never existed. The village was silent. Everyone moved hurriedly, as if fleeing something.

I walked for a while, farther from home than I'd ever been. I'd reached the back of Wishing Hill. I saw a ruined house, and from it came the foulest stench I'd ever known. I didn't understand why, but something inside me screamed: Run.

I ran home. I had to ask my mother what had happened. And she told me:

> "Not every child is born lucky, Aleda. Some of us are only here to visit."

Her words echoed in my ears. I knew then what I wanted to wish for. I wanted every soul born into this world to have a chance to grow. That was the wish I carried; perhaps for Yasmin, perhaps for myself.

The hidden fire in my eyes was really a fear I could never say out loud: to be alone, to be forgotten, to vanish. I forced myself to be strong, to be needed by others. I hid the soft, fragile parts of myself— because in Karsis, there was no room for weakness.

It was the second day of spring. No one was left by the wishing tree. The tree... was silent. Maybe it had grown tired of hearing so many wishes. Or perhaps it had never listened to anyone at all.

Looking down at the piece of cloth in my hand, something felt off. The words I'd written— that everyone deserved to be happy— didn't feel like they were truly mine.

They weren't heartfelt. They weren't honest. Maybe I didn't want everyone to be happy… Maybe I wanted everyone to be happy with me.

I crumpled the cloth between my fingers. Then fixed my eyes on the tree's trunk. Like every wish, this one too would disappear beneath the leaves. Even my realizations would fade.

The wishing tree might've been the very trunk of silence. But for the first time, I was hearing my own.

And just then, a girl with black hair blowing in the wind walked through the leaves. She reached for a branch on the other side of the tree.

She was nothing like me. She was silent, lost, otherworldly. She was darkness.

Her long black hair rippled with the wind, her eyes like a moonless night: they pulled you in, but showed you nothing. Her face was blank. No joy. No curiosity. Only a weight... a strangeness.

I stepped around the tree to meet her eyes. We locked gazes, and I felt time slip from under my feet, though don't worry, dear friend—I was still standing.

A hum rose from the forest, a leaf fell from the tree onto her shoulder— she didn't even flinch.

She held something. A small, cloth-wrapped paper.

She touched the branch, tied the paper, and walked away in silence.

Her name was Amine. I will never forget her. She didn't stand—she sat, as though she belonged to the soil.

Her shoes were sunken in mud. She didn't care. Her eyes were deeper than anyone would dare look. Storms raged inside her, but none reached the surface. That was Amine.

We didn't meet. We didn't speak. But in that silence, we felt each other's presence. I was outgoing, spirited, chasing traces of love, seeing each day as a new game for myself.

But Amine had chosen to live in the dark. She didn't love herself. She was a sea of silent storms.

In that moment, I read my wish again: "Let everyone love me."

It was a selfish need I couldn't even admit to myself.

And in that silence, I looked into Amine's eyes— into that deep, brown sea. I was like a leaf trembling on the shore, unable to dive into those depths.

To her, I was merely noise, a shadow in her silence.

That first encounter was a quiet trick of fate. Neither of us knew it then, but from that moment on, our lives would be bound together.

My world touched her darkness. Her world reached my light. And that touch would, in the years to come, become devastating, terrifying—and utterly beautiful.

Or maybe, it was just a moment, remembered only by me, important only to me.

After that, I couldn't let Amine go. Every day, I would cross Wishing Hill and go beyond Karsis, just to catch a glimpse of her. To meet her would be an honor, and I'm sure—if she had ever known me—she would have been glad, too.

Sometimes, days that begin with hope end in despair. But rarely do days that begin in despair end bathed in light. Today, I believe, was one of those rare days. For the first time in a long while, I found myself excited to speak, to tell. Perhaps it was the listener. Because people speak only as much as they feel understood. And I—thank the earth and the skies—do not know how to be silent.

Since my aunt introduced me to someone who truly listens—not just hears—I've been sending letters to her every week. Yes, I used to avoid meeting her. I, who didn't even want to see my own mother, how could I possibly speak to anyone? How could I believe someone would listen to me, when I couldn't even bring myself to tell my mother everything?

But that's not how it turned out. For the first time, someone listened to me with warm, sincere love. I haven't seen her yet. And that's the miracle: someone wanting to listen, unafraid to show it, caressing me with her words instead of crushing me beneath them. If someone can do that even from afar, why are those closest to us so incapable of giving us the same? Why do we always learn love too late, or in the wrong way? Honestly, I will never understand.

Maybe that's why my aunt said the cure was no longer in the mountains of Karsis and called me to her, to Keralin. And yes, I'll admit it. In the days I've stayed here, I've missed Karsis deeply. But lifting my head from where the memories lived has made me think—so much that I've nearly gone mad.

These near-mad states must have seemed familiar to my aunt, for she introduced me to a woman named Laya, whose words hold the power to heal. I had never been so close to a woman before. At least, not close enough to exchange letters. Now, this woman is preparing me to come visit her. She says that to be ready to speak, I must first know what to say. So I write. Every day. Can you believe it? That writing might one day heal me. I don't believe it… and yet I can't help but hope.

Dear friend, My reflection, You and I have been sharing silent, sleepless conversations in the night for a while now. But today is unlike our other talks. Today, I want to tell you about something that moved me deeply—something joyful, at times dark. I can't wait to begin. Yes, yes, I'm starting.

Dear friend, Today I want to tell you how I met Amine—the girl whose name I once refused to even mention, but who is the reason behind everything.

Sometimes, life feels like a single moment. Like a breath, like the touch of wind—it settles in your chest. My moment... was in Karsis. Karsis... neither modern nor ruined, a place where the old and new clash. For us, it was simply our homes, our streets, and that one moment. The story of that moment.

Years ago, when I stood beneath that tree, my mind was clouded. That tree was not just a tree. We would tie our wishes to its branches—our hopes, fears, and desires clinging to its limbs. My wish that day rose from a little girl's heart—but it carried an enormous emptiness.

A few days earlier, behind the granary outside the village, I saw a small girl knee-deep in mud, covered in dust. Her name was Yasmin. I later learned she belonged to a forgotten family—one no one spoke of, whose name had been erased.

Let me start from the beginning, dear friend. When the last footsteps faded from Karsis' streets, I walked to the only place I could call my own—behind the granary. A place no one knew. There, no one asked who I was. I didn't shine myself up or dress to impress. I simply sat in silence and watched the stars late into the night. The moon was beautiful that evening, and just as I was about to sit down, I heard rustling behind me.

And what did I see? A small girl, struggling to hide her body beneath torn clothes and trembling hands. Her breath came in short gasps. Her hair—a shade of red I'd never seen before. At first, she hadn't noticed me, but the crunch of my step drew her gaze.

When she lifted her head, I saw her eyes were greener than mine, filled with pain yet to be lived, stories yet to be told. I saw it in the wide, breaking pupils of her gaze.

That silent fear she carried— it seeped into my bones like a forgotten wound the town chose to bury. She didn't run, but she shifted back and forth, unsure. Her hands trembled endlessly, but her silence spoke more than any voice could.

She was just a little girl. Her face buried in dirt. Her dress was in shreds, her skin scratched. And those eyes… The eyes of someone long disconnected from the world.

I approached slowly. I didn't say, "What's your name?" I didn't say, "Are you okay?" I simply knelt down and waited.

She kept glancing behind her, not at me. She shivered. Then, suddenly, she began to cry. Silently. As if a scream was stuck in her throat, so afraid even to cry.

Her presence touched only me, in that moment. I had never comforted anyone before, not even my mother had cried beside me.

I reached out and offered her a lily. She hesitated, then took it.

> "I'm Yasmin," she said, unafraid, free of terror. "I'm Aleda," I replied.

I remember staring at her a moment longer, then running away without looking back. The next morning, Yasmin was gone. No matter where I looked, it was as if she had never existed. The village was silent. Everyone moved hurriedly, as if fleeing something.

I walked for a while, farther from home than I'd ever been. I'd reached the back of Wishing Hill. I saw a ruined house, and from it came the foulest stench I'd ever known. I didn't understand why, but something inside me screamed: Run.

I ran home. I had to ask my mother what had happened. And she told me:

> "Not every child is born lucky, Aleda. Some of us are only here to visit."

Her words echoed in my ears. I knew then what I wanted to wish for. I wanted every soul born into this world to have a chance to grow. That was the wish I carried; perhaps for Yasmin, perhaps for myself.

The hidden fire in my eyes was really a fear I could never say out loud: to be alone, to be forgotten, to vanish. I forced myself to be strong, to be needed by others. I hid the soft, fragile parts of myself— because in Karsis, there was no room for weakness.

It was the second day of spring. No one was left by the wishing tree. The tree... was silent. Maybe it had grown tired of hearing so many wishes. Or perhaps it had never listened to anyone at all.

Looking down at the piece of cloth in my hand, something felt off. The words I'd written— that everyone deserved to be happy— didn't feel like they were truly mine.

They weren't heartfelt. They weren't honest. Maybe I didn't want everyone to be happy… Maybe I wanted everyone to be happy with me.

I crumpled the cloth between my fingers. Then fixed my eyes on the tree's trunk. Like every wish, this one too would disappear beneath the leaves. Even my realizations would fade.

The wishing tree might've been the very trunk of silence. But for the first time, I was hearing my own.

And just then, a girl with black hair blowing in the wind walked through the leaves. She reached for a branch on the other side of the tree.

She was nothing like me. She was silent, lost, otherworldly. She was darkness.

Her long black hair rippled with the wind, her eyes like a moonless night: they pulled you in, but showed you nothing. Her face was blank. No joy. No curiosity. Only a weight... a strangeness.

I stepped around the tree to meet her eyes. We locked gazes, and I felt time slip from under my feet, though don't worry, dear friend—I was still standing.

A hum rose from the forest, a leaf fell from the tree onto her shoulder— she didn't even flinch.

She held something. A small, cloth-wrapped paper.

She touched the branch, tied the paper, and walked away in silence.

Her name was Amine. I will never forget her. She didn't stand—she sat, as though she belonged to the soil.

Her shoes were sunken in mud. She didn't care. Her eyes were deeper than anyone would dare look. Storms raged inside her, but none reached the surface. That was Amine.

We didn't meet. We didn't speak. But in that silence, we felt each other's presence. I was outgoing, spirited, chasing traces of love, seeing each day as a new game for myself.

But Amine had chosen to live in the dark. She didn't love herself. She was a sea of silent storms.

In that moment, I read my wish again: "Let everyone love me."

It was a selfish need I couldn't even admit to myself.

And in that silence, I looked into Amine's eyes— into that deep, brown sea. I was like a leaf trembling on the shore, unable to dive into those depths.

To her, I was merely noise, a shadow in her silence.

That first encounter was a quiet trick of fate. Neither of us knew it then, but from that moment on, our lives would be bound together.

My world touched her darkness. Her world reached my light. And that touch would, in the years to come, become devastating, terrifying—and utterly beautiful.

Or maybe, it was just a moment, remembered only by me, important only to me.

After that, I couldn't let Amine go. Every day, I would cross Wishing Hill and go beyond Karsis, just to catch a glimpse of her. To meet her would be an honor, and I'm sure—if she had ever know me—she would have been glad, too.