Noah shouted into the roaring wind, "Please, let me help Mustafa! If you really love him, please… let me save him!"
And just like that, the wind calmed.
He rushed into the shrine, cradled Mustafa's limp body in his arms, and carried him through the storm to the hospital. The doctors gave him no hope. They said surgery was pointless—that Mustafa wouldn't make it, and Noah was only wasting time and money.
But Noah refused to believe them.
"He'll live," he said, eyes filled with conviction. "He has to. He has someone waiting for him."
Two hours passed.
Against every odd, Mustafa survived.
The rocks had hit vital organs. The tombstone he'd used to slice the jacket had cut near his liver. It was a miracle he was alive. But he was.
Mustafa lay unconscious in his hospital bed, pale and breathing shallowly. Noah sat beside him, unmoving, loyal, torn.
Then, the old monk entered.
"I was sure he was gone," the monk said softly. "But perhaps… destiny is stronger than even I believed."
Noah looked up at him, tired. "What do you want?"
"You still think he's insane, don't you?" the monk asked.
Noah didn't reply—he just nodded.
The old monk gave a quiet, knowing laugh. "Go to the old abandoned house. Tonight's the full moon. It's your best chance to see her."
Then, as calmly as he had come, the monk walked out.
Noah sat for hours, torn between reason and faith. But as the moon rose, so did something else inside him—guilt, love, the need to know.
He left Mustafa's side and went alone to the old house.
The wind greeted him—violent, worried, afraid.
Noah stepped forward and shouted into it, "I'm sorry! About everything! Mustafa is safe. He's alright!"
The wind quieted.
He walked in, sat near the roses.
And then he saw it.
A poem written in the air by the wind—one he had read long ago. One Mustafa had burned.
Tears filled Noah's eyes.
He finally understood just how much pain Mustafa had carried—how he had almost died because no one believed him. Because he didn't believe him.
Noah broke down.
And the wind wrapped around him gently.
He whispered, "I promise—no matter what happens, you two will live together. No one will disturb you. Not ever again."
A week later, Mustafa finally woke. His wounds were healing. His soul was lighter.
Noah brought him to the old house—now cleaned, repaired, made into a home.
Smiling, Noah said, "For everything I put you through… this is for you. No one will bother you or Sofia here. Just the two of you. And maybe me… if that's alright?"
Mustafa pulled him into a hug.
"Thank you," he whispered. "And I'd be happy if you dropped by."
And so, they began again.
Mustafa and Sofia spent the next 34 years together. Quietly, beautifully.
They planted their own vegetables. They grew roses of every kind. They lived slowly. Lovingly.
And Noah visited often, not just as a friend—now, as family.