It was a day heavy with sorrow, and the sky poured as if it were crying for me.
I climbed to the rooftop, exhausted—my steps weighed down as though every worry was tied to my feet.
I sat there, shedding my pain in silence, whispering to myself:
When will this harsh exhaustion fade?
I returned to my room, soaked in rain, as if the clouds had embraced me… and then let go.
I changed my clothes and lay down—my body felt like it wanted to evaporate from pure fatigue.
I dozed off.
Suddenly… he appeared.
He sat beside me and embraced me.
It wasn't a physical embrace—but soul to soul.
He whispered in that broken, beautiful voice: I'm tired too.
The roughness of his voice didn't hide his warmth—it was as if it guarded tenderness behind a wall of strength.
His tone embraced me—not through words, but through what hid behind them… as if his heart was weary of silence, yet still knew how to say: I'm here.
For a moment, I wasn't in my world… I was floating in a space without weight, without gravity.
Only stillness. Only him and I. And a silence that patted gently on my soul.
His tired, faded face was my mirror—his features screamed what I kept hidden, and his eyes said everything I couldn't.
I reached out, touched his back, and hugged him as if I were clinging to the dream more than to him.
I woke up…
Hope was chirping behind the window.
The music of morning hummed in my ears, as if saying: You survived, at least yesterday.
I opened the window and smiled, then asked myself:
Will he return? Just to carry this mountain of exhaustion and betrayal off my chest?
---
The next morning…
It wasn't just any morning.
The birds' songs felt like they were telling me: You survived… at least yesterday.
I held my warm coffee cup, took the first sip—and its aroma swept into my depths, awakening something long asleep in my memory.
I remembered my childhood…
Watching my family during gatherings, their laughter filling the space, coffee cups never leaving their hands.
I used to wonder: What's the secret behind that dark liquid?
How can something so bitter bring that much comfort to their faces?
One day, I dipped my tiny lips into my mother's cup.
One sip was enough to make me frown… How bitter it was!
But today—after all these years—I sip it and smile.
Its bitterness no longer bothers me. It became part of its charm.
As if I had learned to taste life as it is—its sweetness and bitterness together.
Memories started to dance in front of my eyes…
I remembered my grandfather—his stories about his village, far from all noise, and his mischievous, funny childhood.
Why don't I go there?
I said to myself—maybe I'll find in its silence the inspiration I've been looking for.
Maybe… it'll open the gates to a new story.
---
Arrival at the village:
On the road, I spaced out...
Will I feel his spirit there?
Will the villagers know me?
Too many questions… no answers.
I arrived.
I ran like a child, my heart pounding with longing—
But then, a shock:
Who are these people in my grandfather's house?
My father had sold it.
I stood, lost.
I asked some villagers about where I could stay.
An old woman pointed toward an abandoned house:
Empty… but no one dares enter it. If your heart is strong, sleep there tonight.
I hesitated for a moment…
Then said to myself: If this is the beginning of my story, then so be it.
I walked slowly toward the edge of the village.
The road was dusty and winding, and the fog crept in like a heavy veil over silent trees.
There it was…
The house.
Isolated—standing as if waiting for me.
In front of it, a dried tree leaned toward the ground as if praying over something buried.
The windows were covered with decayed wood, creaking faintly with every breeze.
I approached and placed my hand on the door.
Old wood, cold as ice.
I pushed it slowly—it groaned, like someone inside had been complaining for years.
The house was dark,
But the last rays of sunlight behind me revealed dust-covered walls and spiderwebs.
An ancient smell… like the place hadn't breathed in ages.
Yet strangely… some things felt alive.
As if they were waiting to be awakened.
I placed my bag on the floor, looked around, and whispered inside me:
Just one night… and then I'll leave.
But I didn't know…
That the house doesn't like those who leave easily.
---
The First Night
Deep in the night…
It was heavy.
Even though I turned off the lights and closed my eyes, something inside my head wouldn't shut off…
The voice.
Calling me in whispers—by my name.
As if someone was standing behind me, whispering in my ear.
But no one was there.
I convinced myself it was just my mind playing tricks. That I was simply tired.
I tried to sleep—and eventually, I did.
In the dream…
I was walking inside the same house—but it looked different.
The furniture was covered in white cloths, dust floating like tiny clouds.
Then suddenly…
A large mirror appeared in the hallway.
I approached.
But I didn't see myself.
I saw… a woman.
She screamed into my face—a scream that tore through the dream… and my nerves.
I trembled, stepped back, and screamed too—
But no sound came out.
Then… darkness.
And laughter echoed… the laughter of children.
I ran toward the sound.
At the end of the hallway, there they were—
Four children, backs turned, laughing too loudly for their age.
I approached, slowly—my heart pounding violently.
They all turned at the same moment.
Their faces were pale white.
Eyes pitch black—endless.
Their gaze stabbed into my silence like a dagger.
And suddenly… silence.
---
I woke up…
My heart racing like madness, my clothes soaked in sweat.
But the strangest part…
There were small footprints on the floor.
From the door… to the side of my bed.
I stood, gasping for air.
I rushed to drink water—but as I opened the faucet, it stopped.
As if the house was breathing with me… and failed me when I needed it.
Then, the lights started flickering—on… off… on… off…
I looked up at the ceiling and whispered:
There's something wrong with this house… but I believe. My heart must be strong. Nothing will stop me from writing my story.
I returned to the room.
Sat at an old table.
Took a paper and pen—and began to write…
A word… two words… then I'd toss the paper.
Write again… toss again.
Everything was chaos. Inspiration ran away—
As if it feared this place even more than I did.
---
The next day, after a night full of whispers and nightmares, I couldn't stay idle.
I stepped out of the haunted house, the cold village breeze playing with my hair.
I walked toward the tiny market, and sat beside an old woman—her features heavy with the weight of the world.
I asked quietly:
I have a question… about the abandoned house, up on the hill.
She raised her eyes to me, paused, then sighed:
You were there? Child, no one's entered that house in years.
Why? Who used to live there?
A woman named Suha. She was pure. But the village slandered her honor… falsely.
And they didn't stop there.
Their words drove her husband insane.
He killed their three children… with his own hands.
And after that…
No one ever saw him again.
No sound came from that house since.
I gasped—my hand flew to cover my mouth.
My entire body shook.
The old woman continued, tears falling from her eyes:
Even if she was guilty…
That's not how humans should be judged.
No one's perfect.
But those people… were monsters.
They killed her innocence… and her children.
I returned home carrying a sorrow that wasn't mine… yet I felt it deep within my chest. Suddenly, I understood why every time I closed my eyes, I saw children, and heard screaming.
The story wasn't just a tale… the story was real, begging to be written.
I started searching through the house — its crumbling drawers, the old wardrobe, the dusty mirror… until I found a small wooden box hidden behind a broken piece of wood in the wall.
I opened it, and there they were — old black-and-white photographs. Suha, her husband, and three children. She was smiling in one of them, but her smile never reached her eyes. It was as if she was hiding pain behind every calm feature.
I held the photo to my chest and whispered softly as I looked around:
If you're here, Suha… hear me. I see you. Don't scare me, please… just talk to me. Let me write your story. Let me be your voice… You're not alone. Many like you have been crucified by people's tongues, killed by the chains of society.
Suddenly...
The lights went out.
The door closed behind me on its own.
My limbs froze.
And the mirror in front of me started showing reflections… that weren't mine.
Then… she appeared.
Suha.
Her face was pale, but her gaze was sharp — not frightening, but… tearful.
She seemed to be screaming in silence.
Trying to speak, but no voice came out.
She approached me, didn't touch me — just pointed at the table…
On it were a blank paper and a pen.
She wrote one word in trembling handwriting:
Write.
The door suddenly swung open, and a warm light burst in, piercing the darkness of the room. I didn't move… I just looked.
I stepped through it as if I were walking through time.
I saw Suha.
In her simple dress, her long braid, standing in a small kitchen, singing to a baby in her arms, while two other children played around her.
Her husband laughed with them… a modest home, but filled with love.
Then…
One day, Suha's husband left early for urgent work in a nearby village.
She was cooking, her two children were asleep, and the third was playing by the door.
She heard a soft knock and opened it...
It was her cousin.
He smiled, speaking with a fake gentleness:
Alone today? I just stopped by to check in…!
She replied coldly:
Thanks, but my husband will be back soon.
He entered without asking permission.
She stood firmly in his way, but noticed something in his eyes he could no longer hide…
He stepped closer, whispered nervously:
No one will know… just one moment…
She screamed.
Get out!! Shame on you!! I'm married!
Fear God!!
She slammed the door on him with all her strength.
Her little child ran to her in fear.
She trembled.
But… the neighbors heard.
They heard her scream — not as a cry for help, but as a scandal.
They didn't ask her what happened, didn't search for the truth… they just began to whisper.
She was screaming… and alone…
Who was with her? Her cousin?!
God protect us…
And so… her end began.
A crime committed by others — but she paid the price.
But gossip spreads faster than innocence.
They accused her, trampled her honor, even her husband — blinded by rage — committed the unforgivable.
They killed her… and killed her children.
Not because they were evil, but because ignorance kills.
And honor, in some societies, is stained by a lying tongue — not a real act.
I suddenly returned to my place…
Breathing heavily.
Then… Suha appeared again.
But she was no longer a ghost — she was a calm, white soul, her eyes peaceful for the first time.
She spoke with tearful gratitude:
You knew the story…
You were the only one who believed me…
Believed in me, even though you didn't know me.
Write it… tell the world…
That some people died unjustly,
but their souls still wait for justice… even if only through ink.
Then she bid me farewell.
She and her children.
They left through the door, taking the light with them, and it closed gently behind them.
From that day on,
the house was no longer haunting.
It became a sanctuary for a tale… whose voice escaped the grave.
And the next day…
the house returned to its peaceful state.
And the village… began whispering a new story…
The story of: Suha's Voice.
Years later, the novel was published…
And the name -Suha- was no longer spoken of as a ghost to fear,
but as a pure soul wronged by time,
revived by ink,
and made immortal by the voice of a stranger who believed in her…
and gave her eternity.