Ferman Akdeniz lay under the earth, alone and finally successful: he had become the first man in his lineage to die without leaving a burden behind.
"I’m leaving, Baba," Selim said, his voice barely rising above the low hum of the television in the corner. "The contract in Germany is signed. I won’t be back for the funeral when the time comes."
"Good," Ferman said, his voice raspy but steady. "Don't come back. Ben ölürsem mezarıma gelme. (If I die, do not come to my grave.)"
"Sell it," Ferman commanded. "Use the money. Buy a house with a garden. Plant something that grows. Don't waste your tears on dirt and a name."
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.