Every piece of writing carries a voice. This felt like the right one for these lines.
You can listen from below — perhaps it will resonate differently within you. 🎧👇

A woman woke up in the morning.
First, she reached for The Divine.
Then she sat at her desk, opened her book,
placed a pen in one hand ready to take notes,
and began reading her beloved Yunus Emre.

She read and read and read…

Finally, she remembers reading these lines:

“With Jesus in the sky,
with Moses on Mount Tur,
and Moses’ staff in my hand,
I call upon The Divine to bring ‘You’ to me…”

She sighed—and the house grew even quieter.
At approximately 8:25, the doorbell broke the hush.
No one she was expecting stood there.

Without putting down her pen, she walked to the door and opened it.
A tiny boy—no more than eight or nine—stood before her…
His eyes whispered, loud and clear: “I am lost.”
Despite the blazing summer sun, snow lay upon his head.
His hair… stiff, spiky — as if untouched by kindness.
Clearly, he had never known a gentle touch.
With a small hand, he tried to smooth his hair—perhaps to comfort himself.
Maybe there was hardly any hair at all.
Maybe there never had been.
Perhaps they had left—not out of cruelty, but in silent protest.
Who knows…

But the boy stood in such stillness, the woman found no words.
He was small, and naturally, she much taller.
He bowed his head — yet from beneath it, he peeked at her, then looked away.
She slowly knelt down, bringing her eyes level with his.

“Hello, beautiful child,” she said, gently smiling to comfort him.
He said nothing.

“Were you looking for someone?”
Still no reply.

“How can I help you?”
Silence again.

“Your family must be missing you.
If you speak to me, maybe I can help.”
Still, not a word.

She faltered—torn between the urge to help and the fear of frightening him.
She looked at the boy, unsure; he said nothing, only glancing at her now and then, shyly.

Then, his eyes caught sight of the pen in her right hand.
The woman didn’t understand at first.
But then—he spoke. For the first time, he broke the hush.

“That thing… in your hand… is it the Staff of Moses?” he asked.

The woman froze.
And burned.

Then, without thinking, she opened her arms wide and said,
“Come here! Now I know Who sent you.
You can trust me.”

The boy leaned forward, as if to rush into her embrace—
but held himself back.

She understood.
And in a voice like lullaby, she whispered:

“Lean on my chest, child—
my heart is like the sky, like the open sea.
It never rusts…it’s like the earth.
Like the soil.
And you—
You are like the moon, like a cloud.
And sometimes…like the sun.”

The boy, releasing tears that had long gathered in his eyes, hugged her tightly.
She held him even tighter. They remained like that for a while.

Then she looked at him and asked, “Would you like to come inside?”
He nodded yes, silently.
She opened the door wide.

“Come in, handsome boy,” she said.

His eyes sparkled, as if enchanted by the words.
A faint, proud smile graced his face, as if he’d discovered a beauty that belonged to him.
The compliment gave him a sweet victory—his every movement glowed with the sparkle of:

Yes, I am that handsome boy.

Gently, she guided him to the living room.
He entered first, then she followed—and froze at what she saw.

“Dear The Divine,” she murmured in shock.

Sitting on the couch was a girl with sandy bob-cut hair—around the same age…
When the little girl saw the boy enter:

“Oh, thank The Divine! You’ve come,” she said.

Like Yesevi she spoke:
“You’re late for one coming in 40 days.
How quickly one who comes in 40 years arrives!”

Then she ran and embraced the boy.
He returned the hug as if he’d known her since forever… an embrace destined.
The woman could hardly believe it.
She was seeing this boy for the first time, but the girl felt so familiar.
In stunned silence, she greeted her with a hesitant

“Hello,” which the girl returned quietly.
“Do I perhaps know you from somewhere?” the woman asked.

“I hope so,” the girl replied—her voice cracked and weary, edged with sorrow.

The woman paused, unsure where to look.
Meanwhile, the silent boy became a bridge between two worlds, silently reconnecting a severed thread with invisible hands.

“You know each other,” he said softly.

The little girl, with a slight smile and subtle reproach, said:
“I know her.
I’ve called to her for years.
I’ve walked beside her silently for years.
But not once did she see me, hear me.”

The woman’s eyes widened.
Time stopped.
Her breath caught.
And in that instant, she understood who the little girl was.

She bowed her head, unable to look her face. Tears spilled:
“I’m sorry…”
“How could I not see you?”
“How could I forget you?”
“How could I not hear you?”

And he came. Not only did he come—he brought you to me. And he also showed me to you.”

The little girl responded: “I searched for a sibling for years… a companion who would bring my voice to you…

The woman couldn’t hold back.
She cried, sobbing out years of silence.
For the first time, she looked into the girl’s eyes—and repeated that single line from her heart, again and again:

“I’m sorry…”

The girl’s eyes still smiled the same way, despite so much unspoken hurt and quiet reproach.
For she had learned that smiling was a form of resistance—like donning a garment of revolution atop pain, dressing every wound with a smile.

Watching that scene quietly, the boy wiped tears from his eyes with a childlike urgency,
being washed in an unnamed yet profound emotion.
Crying was being taught to him for the first time—
it wasn’t coming from his eyes, but the depths of his heart.

The woman and girl turned toward him, eyes finding his.
Arms wide, they said:
“Don’t just stand there… come here.”

In that moment, the missing piece inside them stirred.
Lost children finally existed in one another’s eyes.
Their silent screams, echoing for years, stilled.
Their steps merged like a beam of light.
And finally—
where words couldn’t reach—
their hearts touched.

The woman sensed the children were both weary and hungry.
While she prepared their favorite meals in the kitchen, she watched the mingled laughter on the rug, the joy their tiny hands brought into the games.
Her heart beat with an unfamiliar joy.
A quiet prayer rose within her:
With the innocence of these children I call upon The Divine…

The meals were placed carefully on the table, shared and savored.
Words meandered like a deepening evening as night softly descended.
She was about to prepare beds when the girl smiled:
“I love sleeping on the floor… you remember that, right?”
“Of course,” the woman replied.
The boy jumped in:
“So do I! I want to sleep on the floor!”

Gently, the woman prepared their places.
She was about to slip into her own bed when both little faces turned to her at the same time:
“Will you sleep with us?” they asked.

Her heart filled with indescribable calm.
“Of course,” she replied, in a near-whisper.
“Come lie right between us,” they added.

She tucked the girl under one arm, the boy under the other…

That night—three bodies, three separate loneliest nights—began to dissolve into the same warmth.
It was more than a physical embrace.
It was a surrender of hearts beneath the same blanket.

Just before sleep claimed her fully, she asked:
“What would you like for breakfast in the morning?”

Instantly the girl sat up, her voice lighting with childlike joy: “Turkish-style egg bread”

The boy hesitated, voice soft.
The woman tilted her head, smiling gently:
“What’s your preference, handsome boy?”

He glanced away:
“Well… I don’t know. I like Turkish-style egg bread too,” he said.

She gave him a playful grin:
“Are you sure, handsome?”
“Yes,” he replied, almost in a whisper.
She stepped closer to his heart:
“If there’s something else you prefer, know that making it would make me happy.”
He nodded gently: “No, no… I really love it. Turkish-style egg bread too, is my favorite.”

“Okay then. I think sleep is calling us now…”

She kissed both foreheads, tucked them in snugly, and drifted into a night meant for rest and safety.

Morning came.
When she opened her eyes, the girl was gazing quietly at her—such a gaze…
It carried years of burden yet was as clear as a dewdrop in morning air.
With tiny fingers, the girl tenderly stroked the woman’s hair—like a silent prayer.

The woman looked into her eyes and spoke with her heart:
“Thank you for coming…”

In that instant, something blossomed in the girl—her first felt sense that:

“I am wanted here,”
“I am not a bother,”
“I am not excessive,”
“I feel safe here,”
“I belong here,”
“When someone is kind, I don’t feel anxious that some part of me will be stolen in return,”
“And… my existence is not a crime. “
“I am not guilty, disgusting, or bad…”

At that moment, the woman spoke aloud the truth she had been holding for years:

“You are the child.
You are the one who deserves gentle touch.
From now on, you will not look at others thinking, ‘What does this person need? What can I do to meet it?’
You are no longer one of those parents who couldn’t nurture their own inner child.
You are the child.
You are the child—
and you are a beautiful child with a beautiful heart.
Never forget—this is the start of a new era where your needs will be met.”

The girl stopped, resting her head against the woman’s heart.
The woman wished with all her being that this heart—
where the innocent lean—become a home.

A small home hidden in the spruce-scented forests of the Black Sea.
A home with a garden that hugs without suffocating, that welcomes by releasing its embrace.
A place where the scent of spice and preserves from wooden shelves immediately envelops you when you walk in.
It smells like authenticity.
It smells like warmth.
And everyone who enters—without realizing—relaxes into that scent, and becomes that same spirit.

A stove stands in the center, welcoming every soul drenched by the storm—first with warmth, then with crackling flame.
It speaks silently: “Be calm, you are safe here.”

Beside it, a divan that seems to say: “Let go of what you carry—lay it all here.”

On the stove a copper teapot, in the oven a country potato…

Travelers dampened in the downpour grow cold and hungry—like souls pelted by their own unmet emotions…

In this home, to nourish, tea is steeped over the fire, potatoes are roasted.
Because that which burns is cooked,
that which is cooked returns to The Divine…

Like Edip Cansever’s poem “The Table” says:
“Well then… what a home it was.”

The little girl rested her head as if laying it in the home the woman wished for—peacefully, for a while.

Then the two of them turned to the other side of the bed to wake the boy and hold him too.
But he wasn’t there.
They called for him in the house.
No reply.
They rose in alarm, searching the entire home—he wasn’t anywhere.
They didn’t know what to do; their hearts racing.

“Did something happen to him?” the girl asked in panicked fear.
“Stay calm,” the woman replied—not wanting to scare her—“maybe he remembered his home.”
But she was terrified too.

Then the girl spoke to her in a familiar way:
“I must have done something wrong…
I must have said something that hurt him…
Maybe he didn’t like Turkish-style egg bread but didn’t say anything for fear…
I wish I had shut up…
Why couldn’t I keep my mouth closed…”

The woman was frozen.
How could such a small one carry so much guilt, anger, shame?

The girl clutched her stomach:
“My stomach hurts.
My body’s heating up.
I feel like a battery about to explode,” she said.

The woman thought: I must step in now.
These words, this guilt—it felt familiar.
All too familiar.
But now, as an adult,
I must calm this small girl’s anxieties.
Her needs now matter, she said.

She knelt and gently placed the girl’s hands in hers, looked into the eyes holding an ocean of compassion, and said:

“Listen, little one, try to calm down.
You bear no guilt.
You would never hurt anyone on purpose.
Your heart is the purest place in this world.”

Then she held her—
like comforting a newborn writhing in pain—
and gently stroked her back in soothing circles.

She told her that she loved her,
that this panic wasn’t about her—
it came from what she had been taught.

Looking into her eyes she said:
“I will never again leave you alone in the well of what you are taught.”

She spoke with such heartfelt sincerity that it was as if she was proclaiming,
“I would endure any suffering not to return to my old life and fears,” sending a salute to Plato’s Allegory of the Cave.

They hugged again, like childhood friends reunited after a summer break—embracing again and again.

Years ago, when reading My Sibling’s Story, the woman found the idea of a “hug machine” absurd.
For such a machine could stimulate serotonin in the body, but could not touch the spirit.

The girl said:
“The battery is slowly returning to normal.”
The woman replied: “Thank The Divine.”

They stayed that way for a time—but their minds were still with the boy.
Then the woman noticed a piece of paper on the table.
It was from him…
With curiosity, they both opened it.

The child, with little fingers new to writing, had written:

“Don’t worry about me.
When I brought you together, I remembered where my own home is.
Now I go there in peace and joy.
But don’t ever forget me.
I am drawing a seal here.
It’s called the ‘seal of kinship seal.’
This seal will connect us first to The Divine, then to each other.
Maybe we won’t meet again.
Maybe we will.
I don’t know.
But each time we return to The Divine, we will be able to converse with each other.
I know this.
As I go on my journey, remember this: you will be alone together without me for the first time.
This will be a new journey for you too.
You may stumble at first.
But don’t fear.
For The Divine is with us.
Your heart is recorded in me.
Be in The Divine’s care…”

The woman and girl could not hold back—they wept sweet, sobbing tears.
They were both relieved he would be alright, safe at home—but already they missed him.

The woman turned to the girl: “You know, we can always converse on the edge of a prostration, don’t you?”

The girl nodded: “Yes, I know.”

The woman asked: “If you had one last thing to say to the boy, what would you say?”

The girl replied:

“From Kalu Bela,
until reaching The Divine again,
the seal of kinship on me will be immortal!”

Then she paused, turned to the woman and asked:
“And you?”

The woman
closed her eyes for a moment,
sighed deeply,
then spoke from where past and future converge:

“By the Olive, I swear,
Even in the darkest of nights,
like a howl rising to the sky,
my raised left fist,
and every prayer I send to The Divine to find you
will remain forever at your side.”

And in that moment,
deep within,
even deeper still,
within internalities,
a bond was formed.

*Kalu Bela refers to the timeless realm where all souls bore witness to the Divine before creation.