The morning light was still thin when Mehmet Aydemir carried his suitcases down the stairs of the two‑story house. His father, Hasan, was already outside, leaning on his cane, the engine of Uncle Davut's minibus running in the yard. His mother, Hatice, stood in the doorway, her good hand resting on the frame, her left arm hanging slightly limp at her side.
Mehmet set the bags down and turned to her.
"Did you eat?" she asked.
"Yes, Mom."
"Did you pack the extra socks?"
"Yes."
She nodded, then pulled him into a one‑armed hug. Her body felt smaller than he remembered. "Call when you land."
"I will."
His father opened the minibus door. "Let's go. The plane won't wait."
Uncle Davut drove in silence. The road from Güzelyurt to Erzurum Airport was familiar—bare hills, patches of late snow on the northern slopes, the distant blue line of the Palandöken range. Mehmet watched the village disappear in the side mirror.
At the airport, Hasan shook his hand—a firm, dry grip. "Study hard. Don't worry about us."
"I won't, Baba."
His father nodded once, then turned and limped back to the minibus. He did not look back. That was not his way.
---
The flight to Istanbul took one hour and forty‑five minutes.
Mehmet had a window seat. He watched the mountains of Eastern Anatolia fold into the brown plateau of Central Anatolia, then the green hills of Bolu, then the sprawl of the Marmara region. The plane descended through a layer of clouds, and suddenly Istanbul was beneath him—a vast carpet of buildings and bridges and water, the Bosphorus a dark blue ribbon cutting between two continents.
He thought about the last day of high school, two weeks ago.
The whole school had gathered in the courtyard for a farewell ceremony. Students who had ranked high enough to name their universities were called to the stage. When his name was announced—twelfth in the country, Medipol University Medical School—the applause had been genuine, even from students who had never spoken to him.
After the ceremony, his history teacher, Semra Hoca, had found him near the back gate. She was a middle‑aged woman with tired eyes and a firm voice, the one who had taught him to see Ottoman and Republic not as enemies but as a single, painful, glorious river.
"So," she said, "you're going to be a doctor."
"Yes, Hocam."
"Good. We need good doctors." She paused. "But don't stop reading history. Medicine heals the body. History heals the memory. A country needs both."
She had shaken his hand—formally, like an equal—and walked away.
That memory stayed with him as the plane touched down at Istanbul Airport.
---
A university shuttle was waiting at the arrivals gate. The driver, a quiet man in his forties, took Mehmet's bags and opened the door of a clean, white minibus. Two other students were already inside—a young woman with curly hair and a young man with glasses, both about his age.
The woman looked up. "Hi. Are you Medipol?"
"Yes. Mehmet."
"Selen. This is Burak." She gestured to the young man. "We're both in the UTİF program. The genius class, they call it."
Burak pushed his glasses up. "It's not genius. It's just hard work."
"Speak for yourself," Selen said, grinning.
The shuttle filled with three more students before departing. The drive to the Haliç Campus took nearly an hour, weaving through traffic that made Mehmet's eyes widen. Istanbul was louder, faster, more crowded than anything he had imagined. Buildings rose on every side, some ancient, some gleaming glass, some covered in scaffolding.
The Haliç Campus sat on the northern shore of the Golden Horn. The buildings were modern—white and gray, with large windows and clean lines. A security guard checked their IDs at the gate, then waved them through.
A staff member from the International Office, a woman named Aylin, met them at the dormitory entrance. She handed each of them a key card and a welcome packet.
"Your rooms are on the fourth floor," she said. "Male students on the north wing, female students on the south wing. There's a common lounge on each floor. Dinner is served in the cafeteria from 6 to 8. Orientation is tomorrow at 9 AM in the conference hall. Any questions?"
No one had any.
Mehmet's room was small but clean—a single bed, a desk, a wardrobe, a window overlooking a courtyard. A shared bathroom connected his room to the one next door. The other room was empty for now.
He set his bags on the bed and sat down. The pendant hung around his neck, hidden under his shirt, as it had for months. He touched it absently. It was cool.
He did not think about the wooden box in his suitcase. He did not think about the ring, the coin, the cylinder, or the dagger. He thought about his mother, sitting in her chair by the window. He thought about his father, limping through the barn. He thought about Belkis, who had cried when he left.
Then he unpacked his clothes, made the bed, and went to find the cafeteria.