Next week
They were all standing in front of a tall building. The weather carried a strange weight, as if warning them to prepare for something unpredictable.
Inside, a man sat behind a polished desk, his expression sharp enough to make anyone nervous. He glanced at his wristwatch, then picked up a file.
"New interns are coming at four o'clock," said an old man named Kerman.
"Who selected them?" the man asked without looking up.
"I did," Kerman replied.
The man let out a slow, heavy breath.
"What happened?" Another man entered the room, tall and casually dressed, his voice lighter in tone.
"I did not want to see her again, and you still let her in," the first man muttered.
The second man smirked slightly. "You will be fine. I will manage."
The clock ticked past four. At 4:10 pm, the sound of footsteps filled the hallway. Four people walked in, faces slightly flushed from hurrying.
"You are ten minutes late," the man at the desk said, standing to his full height.
Sarah froze for a second. Her eyes narrowed. It's him, she thought. The same man from the bakery and airport—Mehmet Ibrahim.
"Peace", Sarah thought.
She leaned closer to Aniya. "What is he doing here?" she whispered.
Before Aniya could answer, Eric spoke softly, "He is I. Murat."
Sarah turned sharply. "No. He is Mehmet Ibrahim."
Eric blinked. "How do you know that?"
Aniya cut in, "You are I. Murat?"
The man nodded once, expression unreadable.
"But Tayyep said you are Mehmet," Aniya added.
"Murat is my pen name," Mehmet replied, voice flat, firm, leaving no room for warmth.
"Next time you must be here at four o'clock sharp. Kerman will explain your work. I do not tolerate mistakes," he said, glancing at each of them with cold precision.
Sarah's mind spun. "I cannot believe someone like him can write a story like 'Across the Sea,'" she murmured to Eric.
"He is just disciplined," Eric replied cautiously.
"He is a crazy monster," Sarah muttered under her breath.
"I heard that, lady," Mehmet said without looking up from his papers.
"I was not talking about you," Sarah replied quickly, but his gaze caught hers—unreadable, almost threatening.
The office was more than a publication house. It was a private library filled with rare literature from around the world. Several editors worked quietly at a long table. Everything was neat, elegant, and organized to perfection.
On the balcony, pots of tulips, roses, and sunflowers caught Sarah's attention. The fragrance of jasmine wrapped around her like home. It made her think of Lahore evenings on the terrace with her family, and for a fleeting moment, she wasn't just a stranger in Istanbul. The flowers were beautiful, but they barely distracted her from the man in his office.
Sarah and Abdullah were assigned to editing, while Eric and Aniya worked on cover design, interior layout, and proofreading. Tayyep owned a clothing brand in Turkey but often spent time here to support Mehmet.
"Are you sure you are here for a master's degree?" Mehmet asked Sarah while reviewing a file.
"What do you mean by that?" she asked.
"This," he said, tossing the file onto the table. "Your edited draft has many mistakes."
"The proofreaders will fix them," Sarah replied calmly, though irritation simmered inside her.
As she walked past him, she whispered under her breath, "Crazy monster."
"I heard that, lady, and you are going to regret it," he said, closing his laptop without a shred of softness.
"He must have super hearing," Abdullah joked nervously after Mehmet left.
"Do you want to have coffee?" Aniya asked Eric.
"Wait for us. Let us finish this first, then we will go," Eric replied.
Sarah smirked. "That monster will not let us leave."
________________________________________
Sarah and Aniya left the library for coffee. The streets outside felt tense as they searched for a coffee shop. The air seemed to press against her chest, anticipation coiling like a snake.
Inside a small corner café, chaos erupted. A group of teenagers argued loudly. Chairs scraped across the floor, voices rose, and a metal straw flew through the air—striking Sarah on the forehead.
Aniya grabbed her hand. "Let's go," she hissed, pulling her toward the exit.
Then a shadow fell by the door. Mehmet stood there, observing everything with his usual unreadable expression.
"What are you doing here?" Sarah demanded.
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze was sharp, calculating, almost predatory. "Watch where you go next time," he said flatly.
Sarah opened her mouth to retort, but he turned and walked away, leaving no trace of care, no softness—only silent, unnerving authority.
She watched him disappear, heart racing. How can one man have so many moods? she thought.
Outside, Aniya muttered, "That man… he's impossible."
Sarah could only nod. She didn't know it yet, but Mehmet Ibrahim was already rewriting the rules of her life and she hadn't even realized it.
________________________________________
After a rough day at university, they settled into a nearby restaurant for their usual lunch.
"We just have twenty minutes, then we gotta go," Eric said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
"Okay, get up. I can't tolerate his sarcastic taunts this time," Sarah muttered, irritation threading her voice. "I don't believe he can write poetry or a soothing story. He can't even say a line without frowning or being sarcastic. I used to be his big fan."
"You're still his fan," Aniya remarked, nodding toward the book in Sarah's hands—one of I. Murat's works.
"I'm a fan of his writing, not him," Sarah clarified.
"I'm a fan of his wristwatch collection," Abdullah added, oblivious to the conversation's seriousness.
At the publication house/ office, Tayyep greeted them politely, but Mehmet only frowned and let out a long, impatient sigh.
The air smelled different today—subtle yet distinct. Sarah's eyes wandered to the balcony and froze on the three pots of jasmine, their fragrance flooding the library.
"Edit this draft," Mehmet instructed, his tone as sharp as ever, snapping her gaze back to the work at hand.
As he walked to his office, Sarah called after him, "Sir, can I read these books?"
"This is classic literature," he replied, looking at her briefly.
"I know. I wanted to read them; they're rare," Sarah said softly.
"Fine. You can read them, but no highlighters, no notes, nothing," he instructed, already turning away.
"Thanks," she whispered, but he didn't respond.
Inside Mehmet's office, Eric and Aniya were already presenting their latest book cover design. Mehmet leaned back in his chair, studying it with a practiced eye, then shook his head.
"It's not working. It looks like something you'd hang in a café, not on a book," he said flatly.
Eric and Aniya exchanged worried glances. "Then… what do you want?" Eric asked.
Mehmet's gaze drifted to the window, distant, as if recalling some exact vision.
"A swan. Not because it's pretty, but because it stays. Through seasons, through storms, it returns to the same place, the same mate. Loyalty without words. The water should be still, but not perfect… ripples, like time has passed. The sky should bleed from indigo into pale gold. No cheap gloss. Just a truth you see before turning the first page."
Aniya tried sketching, but Sarah, who had been silently listening from the doorway, stepped forward.
"Give me a chance," she said quietly but firmly.
Mehmet's eyes narrowed, assessing her. "You?"
"Yes. I think I understand what you want," Sarah said, meeting his gaze steadily.
He exhaled slowly, almost amused. "Fine. One chance. Don't waste it."
"A swan." She smiled.
To Sarah, the bird was survival itself—quiet, dignified, and unshaken no matter how much the world tried to drown it. Maybe she saw herself in it.
Hours later, Sarah returned with her design. A lone swan floated on dark, still water, feathers streaked with faint gray—the marks of survival through many seasons. Ripples spread gently outward. The horizon bled indigo into pale gold. No flashy title, just I. Murat in quiet serif letters at the bottom.
Mehmet studied it silently, fingers hovering above the swan as if measuring some unspoken standard.
"It's not what I imagined," he said at last, his voice flat, and Sarah felt a pang of disappointment.
Then his gaze lifted. "It's better. The swan waits… and so will the reader."
Sarah allowed herself a small smile, but Mehmet's expression remained mostly stern. He handed her the edited draft she submitted earlier, red pencil marks covering every page, filled with instructions and corrections.
"You're good at designing, but you're not a good editor," he remarked, cutting through her words before she could respond.
"Proofreaders can—" she began, but Mehmet interrupted.
"Arguing won't make you a good editor, Miss Sarah," he said. She gave him a look and picked up the file, muttering silently: I am not free to correct you again and again.
I'm still not sure he writes these beautiful words, she thought, shaking her head.
Mehmet's eyes lingered a fraction longer than usual on the spot where Sarah was standing. He looked away quickly, frowning.
________________________________________
At 8:00 p.m., the workday ended. They left the building, walking randomly through Istanbul's streets. Abdullah regaled them with stories Sarah and Eric didn't care for, while Aniya listened intently, interrupting occasionally to correct him.
To distract Sarah from her throbbing headache, Eric showed her his campaign pictures from Canada. He carried his camera everywhere, capturing moments that seemed insignificant but held stories in them.
"Do you like flowers?" he asked.
"A lot," Sarah replied.
"Roses?"
Sarah nodded. Eric pulled a delicate yellow rose from his backpack.
"I carry it for positive energy," he said with a smile.
Sarah hesitated. "But it's yours."
Eric's grin didn't waver. "It's for you."
She accepted it softly. Moonlight fell across the streets, glinting off the petals. Eric snapped a photo, not just of the rose, but perhaps of the moment itself, fleeting and perfect.
Later, at the restaurant Abdullah and Aniya had found, plans were made for Galata Tower. Sarah refused. "I want sleep, not sightseeing."
"But it's a full moon tonight," Abdullah argued.
"I don't want to die on a full moon," Sarah retorted sharply, earning a quiet laugh from Aniya.
Eric volunteered to drop her at the hostel, but she insisted. The streets glimmered under the moonlight, the yellow rose tucked in her bag as she walked.
Crossing Taksim Square, a car slowed beside her. It was Mehmet.
"Why are you roaming alone at night?" he asked, his voice gruff.
"None of your business," Sarah thought but kept her tone neutral.
"Just going back to the hostel," she said.
He scanned the streets. "Where's your fellows?"
"Galata," she replied quietly.
"Come, I'll drop you," he offered.
"No, thanks. The hostel is near," she said, hesitating. Sarah hated the idea of being treated like a fragile guest in Istanbul. He opened the door anyway.
Inside the car, Mehmet's eyes flicked to the yellow rose tucked in her bag.
"How's your forehead?" he asked.
"Fine. Just a scratch," she said, touching it lightly. Silence stretched between them. He drove in silence. Sarah looked out of the window to distract her thoughts.
At her hostel, he walked her to her room and stopped at the door.
"Look around if there's anything wrong," he said.
"Everything's fine," she replied after looking.
"Shut the doors and windows carefully," he instructed plainly.
"Don't roam alone at night. It's not safe," he added, staring at her with an unyielding gaze.
Sarah smiled faintly, though inwardly she felt a strange mixture of relief and annoyance.
"For Istanbul," he added, before finally turning to leave.
I keep expecting warmth from him. Guess I'm the dumb one, Sarah thought, shaking her head with a sarcastic smile.