Chapter 2: The Voices Carried by the Wind
The village lay at the foot of the mountains like a prayer—humble, patient, and deeply faithful. Its people believed in the bounty of the earth, the mercy of the sky, and the news carried by the wind. And every day, they lived as if waking into an ancient epic—gently, without shouting, in silence.
When Aytekin returned home, his mother was by the tandir oven, rolling out dough for bread. The dusting of flour caught in her hair sparkled in the sunlight, and the lines on her brow tried to conceal the passage of years. His mother, Halime Hatun, was one of the first names spoken when the women of the village were mentioned. She appeared stern, but her voice was soft. Especially when she spoke to Bayram—her teasing yet tender tone lingered in Aytekin's ears like a lullaby.
"Did you dip your hands in the water again, hmm?" she called as Aytekin stepped through the doorway.
Aytekin tilted his head slightly and replied with a grin,
"I just greeted it, then passed on."
At that moment, Bayram poked his head out from the back corner of the house, a cloth ball tied with horsehair string in his hand.
"Aytekin! Come play before the sun climbs too high!"
Aytekin winked. "You won't last against me, little warrior."
Play was their language. Words like war, fear, and poverty had not yet been translated into that tongue. A single cloth ball might have been the strongest bond that tied the two brothers together. And when they played, the world grew lighter, if only for a while.
As noon approached, one of the village elders, Derviş Mehmet, walked slowly toward the square, pausing to watch the boys at play. The turban on his head fluttered with the breeze, and with every step of his staff, it was as if he whispered something to the soul of the earth. At times, Derviş would tell of dreams, or speak of days long past. Most of the youth didn't understand his words—but they always fell silent when he spoke.
"Not just a child kicking a ball," some would say, "but a child carrying the future on his back."
That day too, hearing Aytekin's sharp cry echo during the game, the old man sighed deeply.
"The wind carries certain voices far," he muttered to himself. "And the laughter of children—sometimes turns into lament…"