Müge İplikçi wrote: Autumn spirits

For those who miss autumn…

This pile of stones left by Muharrem's grandfather. The light filtering through the window of the past. The past that turns dust particles into gold and heavy talismans.

When Melike looked out, the garden spread out before her in all its autumnal glory. Leaves, reds, yellows, rusty oranges … As the scent of the sea filled her nostrils, she was suddenly transported back to her years at boarding school. The pine trees behind the school smelled just like that back then. She would escape the classroom, the family that haunted her mind, the narrow, hopeless, and endless streets of her family home, and lie beneath the trees, gazing up at the sky. Now, neither that peace nor that sky existed.

Inside, Muharrem was preparing for the guests with the grace of a seasoned, temperate architect. "Serra and Tarık are arriving soon," he said, his voice carrying the same tired patience he always had. There was no trace of their earlier argument.

Melike felt a pang of urgency inside her. She opened the door slowly, as if she were a fugitive. Perhaps so. The garden simply drew her in. As the leaves rustled under her feet, they morphed into whispers of the past. Perhaps these voices were trying to tell her something: "Remember," they said, "that day, the breaking..."

In the distance, the sea blended into the horizon like a darkening mirror. He walked a little further until the mansion's silhouette diminished. Here, far from artificiality, Serra's potentially polished smiles and Tarık's sharp gaze melted in the wind.

It was seven or eight years ago. They had met by chance at a literary event. Serra was younger and brighter then; Tarık, as always, remained distant. “What are you doing?” Serra had asked, her eyes filled with not curiosity but a measure.

"I'm busy," Melike had dismissed it, but in reality, she felt like she'd fallen into a void. Translations, unfinished projects, postponed dreams… It was all a mess of lies. Even Tarık's words, "So, you've been successful," that night seven years ago, and at the restaurant afterward, carried a hint of disdain.

He looked at the house. At the lights. At the time when it was getting dark early. When did summer end? He didn't even know which summer he was talking about.

“We can start anew here,” Muharrem had said back then. When they lost their baby. Has it been two years? This place has been empty for years. Abandoned, weary. The wrong place for a fresh start. Maybe that's why a fresh start wasn't enough to heal old wounds. Maybe it's too late for everything.

He walked through the garden where he had left home, dragging his feet over the leaves. Past with every step. The steps that had once been in this garden now mingled only with the whisper of the wind. Let them mingle. He stopped under a tree.

He touched the bark of the tree with his tired hands. It was cold, hard, yet alive. “You’re still here,” he whispered, “but where am I?”

Melike has gone mad. That's what they would say now. Melike has succeeded. Melike has reached the end. Melike has gone mad. Her loss is great. What a shame for the woman. Muharrem, they would have said, we agree with her. Let her do as he wishes. They should have left her alone. She was tired of his words. Their faces. Always saying the same things in different sentences. Always the same. Muharrem raising his voice, what do you want them to talk about? The leaves. She couldn't say it. She shouldn't have. She had spoken enough. She had been silent enough. Now she had to walk. Through the leaves. Melike had gone mad. Let her go mad. Even these were worn out.

When she got home, which was close to midnight, most of the guests were leaving. She heard car doors slamming. She smiled at the farewells from afar, waving casually, but the relief inside her had already broken down a wall of guilt.

In the dim light of the living room, she saw Muharrem: his shoulders slumped, his lips pursed as he cleared the dishes. He didn't even look at her. The scars from the fight were still fresh. Just the fight?

“Where did you go all these hours?” he could have asked. But he didn’t.

Then she heard it: A child crying. The stairs groaned with each step. A little boy was curled up in his bed, his hands covering his face.

“I have to pee,” he said, shivering.

Who was this child? No, he shouldn't have thought about it. This was no time to think about losses. He took her to the bathroom, felt the trembling of those tiny hands in his palms. "If he had lived..." No, he shouldn't have thought about this.

For a moment, he thought he was comforting his own childhood. Who was that child? Who.

When he went downstairs, he found Serra in the corner, huddled on the antique sofa, looking tense even in his dreams. Her haughty expression was gone, replaced by a brittle, tired look.

Maybe everyone has a darkness. Yes.

Tariq was wandering around the hall like a ghost. He held out his hand. Their handshake was icy.

“You have a nice house,” he said in a husky voice.

Melike looked at the walls. Pictures, collages, oil paintings… They all bore the weight of time. They too were tired.

“Strange spirits haunt this house,” Serra whispered.

Melike smiled. “It’s not ghosts,” she said, “it’s just us.”

When the wind blew the curtains and filled the room, it finally stopped.