Time slips away in Mr. David's room, measured in shared stories and easy laughter. The initial awkwardness has melted completely.
He tells me about Deniz's childhood—the time he cried for an hour over a dropped ice cream, the way he used to line up his toy cars with military precision.
A genuine, unguarded smile stays on my lips.
I feel… light.
Happy in a way that has nothing to do with schemes or survival.
"Son, do you know," Mr. David says, his eyes twinkling, "when Deniz was about ten, I fell sick. That little boy tried to cook soup for me."
He chuckles, the memory warm.
"He made a surprisingly decent broth. And a spectacular mess. Flour everywhere. Looked like a ghost had exploded in my kitchen."
I laugh, the image clear in my mind: serious, small Deniz, determined and covered in white powder.
It's a perfect, precious picture.
The moment is broken by the soft click of the door opening.
We both turn. Deniz stands in the doorway, a paper coffee cup in his hand.
