It was as if the entire ancient city had grown right before my eyes. That old settlement, what could barely be called a town, had transformed a kind of metropolis from antiquity. Muzaffer had caught up with me, and together we could do nothing but stand in stunned silence, staring. The columns—though seemingly shaped by crude hands—bore a horrifying elegance. The streets were sculpted entirely from marble, hand-carved to a disturbing precision. Lamps, streets, houses, and shops... they all waited for us in the inner corridors of this city long since abandoned by time.
Muzaffer and I didn't speak. We simply wandered through its streets, its avenues, its plazas—even its homes. But there was something else. Something profoundly wrong. A woman's voice echoed in the distance. Both of us heard it. It was coming from somewhere deeper in the city. We moved forward, quickly but cautiously.
I knew, both of us were doubting the reality of what we were seeing. We had every reason to believe our minds were toying with us, mocking us with false visions.
We didn't speak for a long time. Just walked. Some of the sounds scraped at our ears, but we paid them no mind. We pressed on. It was surreal. Hellenistic architecture—right in the middle of Vietnam. Each column carved in classical style. Every street seemingly designed to match that era. I'd have guessed a post-Achaemenid period, perhaps after Alexander's conquests.
We continued to hear the woman's voice. It had shifted—no longer a scream but a haunting, unsettling song. We approached an amphitheater ahead. With every step, a growing sense of unease gripped my chest. I knew I shouldn't be here. Something told me to turn back, to escape through the passage we came from. And yet, I fought that feeling, forcing myself forward. We climbed the stone steps of the amphitheater, slowly. The dread swelled inside me.
Eventually, we reached the top. We found a place where we could peer down below, hidden behind a few stone blocks.
What we saw was deeply strange. A woman stood in the center—ash-blonde hair, wearing a hooded linen cloak. Her skin was slightly sun-darkened. She was singing some sort of aria into the empty air. Before her stood a group, also cloaked in linen, listening. The words were in a language I didn't recognize—possibly Indo-Aryan, though I couldn't be sure. Her voice wasn't piercing, but certainly not soft. Operatic flourishes rang out at intervals. The crowd before her stared in rapture, as if hypnotized. The oscillations of her song had blinded them—held them captive. The melody was disturbing, yet they paid it no mind.
Then, we saw another woman approach the singer—also cloaked in linen. She pulled the cloak from the first one's shoulders. Her hair, her entire upper body was now exposed. And in the hand of the second woman... was a knife. Sharp. Purposeful. The last thing I heard was the singer's piercing, bone-chilling scream.
I lunged forward without thinking—stepped out from behind cover. It was involuntary, driven by some undefined instinct. I cannot describe what I saw. My stomach turned violently. Any remaining trace of humanity should have recoiled in shame. I felt myself vomit. Everything I'd eaten that morning came up in a single, uncontrollable rush. I swore under my breath. Then Muzaffer pulled me back into hiding—forcefully. He hadn't seen what I had, so he remained in far better shape.
"We're leaving..." he whispered.
After that... all I remember is—
When I opened my eyes, I was back in the office. At my desk, as if I'd been sorting and translating documents the entire time. I glanced at the desk calendar, just left of my papers. August 12, 1974. Two days had passed since that... incident. Two whole days, vanished. As if they'd been carved out of me. I stared blankly at the desk for a long time. It felt as though someone had played a cruel joke on me.
"You alright, partner?" The voice was Fuat's. It snapped me from my daze. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"You could say that..." I mumbled. I still felt oddly sleepy. Like I had just woken from a long, oppressive dream—but still needed more sleep.
"Trouble sleeping?" he asked in a half-serious tone. He had two mugs in his hands. He placed one on my desk. The cheap coffee stung my nose. "This'll help," he said. "If not, I've got sleeping pills." Then he walked off.
I looked at the clock. It was a little past 5:30 p.m.—almost time to leave. Not enough time to sort through the documents. So I packed everything, drank the coffee, and left the consulate.
I made my way to the bus stop—not wanting to miss the ride home. I didn't really need to. It was only a thirty-minute walk. But my legs… they'd been trembling since I woke up. Wouldn't carry me properly. The bus seemed like the only reasonable choice.
Leaning against the stop, I pulled a cigarette from my pack—it was the last one. I'd need to visit the tobacconist before heading home. That annoyed me. I reached into my pocket for the lighter. Fumbled around in the empty space for a while before managing to pull it from somewhere deep within.
I thought until the bus arrived. Hell, I thought even after. Though "thinking" may not be the right word. It was more like... an inescapable truth had rooted itself into the farthest corners of my mind. The memory of what I had seen would not fade. It was everywhere. On the bus, at home, even while smoking. When I arrived home, I collapsed onto my new bed. The sun was just beginning to set. I couldn't do anything but relive that event. Again and again. The blood wouldn't leave my eyes.
Yet it was as if none of it had happened. Like we had never been there. Normally, Muzaffer would be home by now. He usually left work with me. And he never, ever failed to call if he was running late. That alone felt... wrong.
I pulled myself from bed and grabbed the leftover pasta from last night. Something to drink. Sat at the table and lit another cigarette, more out of habit than need. I had no appetite, but forced myself to eat anyway. Even cold, it helped settle my stomach. But Muzaffer still wasn't home. And that was becoming more than troubling...
Then the phone rang, breaking my meal. I had no choice but to get up and walk toward it, mounted by the front door. I leaned against the wall, lifted the receiver.
"Hello..." I said, in a tired tone.
"Celal..." The voice on the other end was half-whisper, half-fractured. It was Muzaffer. He sounded stressed, though oddly not panicked. "You need to come to the consulate. Now."
"What the hell happened?"
"The Chief Attaché is dead," he said flatly. "Suicide."