Rey's voice from last week's radio broadcast still lingered in many people's ears.
Several emails had been sent to the foundation. Most of them said the same thing:
> "R's writing saved my life."
"I no longer feel alone."
"Please tell the writer that he gave me the courage to live again."
But Rey didn't open a single one of those emails.
He simply asked the foundation staff to keep them.
> "I'm not ready to read praise," he said.
"Because I'm still learning to make peace with myself."
---
A few days later, an editor from a small publishing house came to visit him at the shelter.
She brought a short proposal and two sample books.
> "A lot of people are waiting for your full story," she said.
"If you're ready… we'd love for you to write your first novel, your own story."
Rey was silent.
His hand rested on the cover of one of the sample books.
> "The name on the cover can just be 'R'. Anonymous. We won't force you to appear publicly."
But what made Rey nod wasn't the anonymity.
It wasn't the professional offer.
It was the editor's final words:
> "Your writing isn't about healing your readers.
It's about saving the version of yourself you left behind."
---
And that night, for the first time since leaving the hospital,
Rey opened a blank page on his laptop and wrote the opening line of his novel:
> "I don't want you to come back. But I want you to know—I'm still alive."
He titled the project:
> "Aurel: The Woman Who Never Truly Left."
---
In the days that followed, Rey lost himself in writing.
He no longer wrote as a victim, but as someone willing to be honest.
He wrote about their first meeting—
on a rainy day, at a tiny bus stop.
About Aurel's laugh, which always broke out during the simplest moments.
About how she loved without ever asking for anything in return.
And about the loneliest day of his life:
> The day Aurel got married,
while he stood beneath a tree outside her house
holding a bouquet he never had the courage to give.
---
But in the middle of chapter eleven, Rey stopped.
His hands hovered above the keyboard. His eyes began to water.
He realized something:
> "I'm still writing Aurel in a way that keeps her alive in my mind."
That night, Rey left his room.
He sat on the steps of the shelter, staring at the half-moon in the sky.
In his right hand, he held a freshly printed page.
At the bottom of the page, he had written:
> "I'm sorry, Aurel… because I still haven't truly let you go.
But this book is no longer about remembering you.
It's about saying goodbye—in my own way."
---
Elsewhere in the city, Aurel was reading a bedtime story to Reyhan, who was almost asleep.
But her mind kept drifting.
Back to the voice on the radio.
Back to the words that felt like whispers from another lifetime.
And when Reyhan finally drifted off, Aurel sat in the living room.
She opened her laptop and typed a short message in a blank email:
> To 'R'.
If that book is ever finished, I won't read it.
Because I already know how it ends.
But I'll keep it on the quietest shelf—
as a reminder that someone once loved me with everything they had, even if they never got to stay.
> Thank you for not asking me to come back.
And thank you for finally choosing life."
But Aurel never sent the email.
She just saved it in her drafts.
Like all her memories of Rey—never thrown away, but never reopened.