"You’re stuck," she said, her voice like velvet and smoke.

The door creaked open, and Funda walked in. She didn't need an introduction; her presence commanded the room like a low cello note. She saw Selim at the keys and walked over, her heels clicking a steady rhythm against his frantic heartbeat.

She began to sing, her voice weaving through his melody—deep, resonant, and timeless. Selim joined her, his modern, husky tone grounding her ethereal power. As they sang, the small club seemed to vanish. They weren't just two artists performing; they were two sides of the same story—the raw vulnerability of the present meeting the polished wisdom of the past.

Funda leaned over the piano, humming a melody that climbed where his fell. "You're treating it like a goodbye, Selim. But 'Al Sevgilim' isn't just a goodbye. It’s an offering. It’s saying, 'Even if we are over, I am still an open book for you to read.'"