He stepped through the creaking old door of an ancient mansion. Paying no mind to the door’s pain, he hurried up to his room.
The door, left ajar, let out mournful wails in the wind, filling the whole house.
The condition of his bedridden mother inside was heavier than the door’s. Paying no mind to her either, he was hurriedly packing his suitcase.
The sudden silence that fell turned into a thin ringing in the ears, as if time had stopped. The door’s sound had ceased, and so had his mother’s…
The wooden suitcase in his hand seemed to have caught fire, beginning to set his whole body ablaze. With a cry of apology breaking loose inside him, he dropped to his knees and collapsed.
His heart, like his eyes, was scorched; he could not weep.
Turkish original: “Bavul” on aliosmanakcaoglu.com.
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