Ferman didn't flinch. He took a slow sip of the bitter tea. He thought of the years of missed birthdays, the cold dinners, and the way he had prioritized the "honor" of the Akdeniz name over the happiness of the boy sitting before him. He had been a storm of a father, and now he was just a dying ember.
His son, Selim, sat across from him. They hadn’t spoken in three years. Selim had his mother’s soft eyes and Ferman’s stubborn jaw, a combination that had always made Ferman look away in guilt. Ferman Akdeniz Ben Г–lГјrsem MezarД±ma Gelme
The rain in Istanbul didn’t wash things away; it just made the grime stick. Ferman Akdeniz sat in the corner of a dimly lit tea house in Kadıköy, his fingers tracing the rim of a chipped glass. He was a man who had spent his life building walls—some out of concrete, most out of silence. Ferman didn't flinch