Kemal opened his eyes as the trembling light of dawn brushed against his face. The second figure he had seen in the mirror had further blurred the already thin line between reality and illusion. He buried his head in his hands.
"Am I really losing my mind?" he whispered to himself. He wanted to believe it was just a hallucination—a vision brought on by exhaustion. But something inside him insisted otherwise.
In a burst of desperation, he grabbed his phone and, clinging to hope, tried calling Yelda again. But once more, the same disheartening busy tone echoed in his ear. Then, as if a bolt of lightning had hit him, he remembered the man who had fallen from the rooftop the previous night. Had the police found the body? Was there any news about an unidentified male corpse?
He immediately began searching news outlets. He typed in keywords like "man found dead in a street," "unidentified body," "suspicious death in Balat." But nothing came up—no headlines, no reports, not even a whisper.
He stared blankly at the screen. Either the body had truly not been found... or someone was making sure it stayed that way. Trying to shake the thought, Kemal redirected his attention to the tattoo. He stared at the photo again. The letters... the shapes... they weren't familiar, yet they felt like they should be.
A buried memory stirred in the depths of his mind.
Once, a friend who had been studying ancient languages had photocopied some documents and handed them to him. "Might interest you one day," he had said, though Kemal had never bothered to look at them.
He stood up and rummaged through the dusty lower shelves of his bookcase. Eventually, his fingers brushed against a yellowed photocopy, long forgotten and wedged between old folders. A handwritten note in faded ink was scribbled in the corner:
"Akkadian script – Invocation Formulas to the Gods. Prof. Bekir Çevikoğlu"
He compared the characters in the photo with the writing in the note. They were almost identical. From the same root, no doubt. He couldn't read them, but at least now he had a name who could.
Without hesitation, Kemal opened his laptop and searched for Professor Bekir Çevikoğlu. With each result, his amazement grew. Dozens of articles, books, conference records... all centered around ancient languages and symbols.
How had he remembered such a prolific and respected academic only as a vague memory? As he scrolled further, a link he had previously missed caught his eye. It led to a modest academic indexing site. There, in small print, was Bekir Çevikoğlu's name listed as the author of a paper. Below it, Kemal spotted the affiliation:
"University of Chicago – Oriental Institute, Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations."
The same page listed his email address.
Without delay, he composed a message:
Subject: Inquiry Regarding Ancient Symbols
Dear Professor Dr. Bekir Çevikoğlu,
I am writing to consult you regarding a symbol that has occupied my thoughts for quite some time. I came across your name through notes and references from my graduate studies but never had the chance to explore your work further.
Recently, I encountered an artifact that led me back to your research. It is a stone disc bearing two anthropomorphic figures—one with a deer's head, the other with a lion's. Around them are inscriptions that, at first glance, resemble Aramaic, but the characters are sharper, more angular, and appear far older. I found similar writing in an old photocopy attributed to you, titled "Invocation Formulas to the Gods."
I suspect the script may be Akkadian, but I am in need of expert guidance. With your permission, I would like to share an image of the symbol and seek your opinion regarding its origin.
I would be grateful for your time and insight.
Sincerely, Dr. Kemal Doğan
After hitting send, Kemal leaned back in his chair. His fingers lingered on the keyboard as his eyes fixated on the empty screen.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. All he wanted now was an answer. For days, he had been trying to piece together a puzzle that only became more convoluted with every new clue. Exhaustion, uncertainty, loneliness… They were beginning to crack the walls of his mind. And what now seeped through those cracks more than anything… was fatigue.
"I need something to come of this," he thought. Answers. A sign of Yelda. And a clear explanation of what that stone… and those figures… truly meant. Too many questions remained unanswered. And Kemal wasn't just curious anymore—he was unraveling.
"I need to rest," he whispered to himself. "Just a few hours."
He rose from the desk and quietly made his way to the armchair in the study. He lay down and closed his eyes. As the silence of his mind deepened, a single image emerged from the darkness—an old, dusty tent… a graceful silhouette walking among scattered stones at a dig site.
His mother.
She had played the greatest role in shaping the person he had become. A renowned archaeologist whose name adorned academic journals, artifacts, and museum catalogs. Anyone with even a passing interest in ancient cultures had heard of Havva Doğan. But to Kemal, she was more than a scholar—she was the one who had taught him how to see life in the remnants of the past.
As a child, he had spent countless summer days at excavation sites, trailing behind her through arid lands. The silence, the careful brushing of soil, the joy of finding even the smallest shard… These moments had planted the seeds of his fascination with antiquity.
He had lost her during one of those digs. A sudden collapse at the site had taken her away. Tragic, unexpected, and achingly quiet. She had not only been his mother but also the guiding light toward the path he walked today.
His father, on the other hand… Though outwardly supportive, had always felt distant. As a child, Kemal had never quite understood what his father did. Constant phone calls, closed-door meetings, and a presence that was more like a shadow.
He remembered him more as a figure in the periphery—a silhouette, a voice, then silence. His last clear memory of his father was a fierce argument with his mother. Not long after, she had died. And shortly after that, his father had vanished too.
Kemal had still been young. He remembered being left with his grandfather, with no explanation, no farewell. Since then, he had only received a few brief, vague notes. Cold, emotionless words sent from nowhere in particular.
Then, nothing. For ten long years.
Not even a message when his grandfather passed away.
At some point, Kemal had come to believe that his father must have died too. As these thoughts drifted through his weary mind, Kemal surrendered himself to sleep.