Silence and darkness…
That was all the young girl could feel with every fragment of her being. As she drifted slowly through the vast, shadowed void of space, her body—already torn apart—scattered piece by piece into nothingness. She was, in every sense of the word, shattered. And yet… she could still feel. Every cell in her being trembled with the cold of the universe. She was alone, and she had not the faintest idea of what was happening to her.
Just when she thought death was reaching for her, what she experienced instead left her mind tangled in confusion.
She searched her thoughts.
What could she do? How could she escape this?
And so, she went back—
Back to the day her story began.
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A crowd of women had gathered in the same room. The soft murmur of Qur'an recitations filled the air.
Little Meryem, still unable to process the shock of everything that had happened, clung to the corner of the couch she sat on and stared blankly around the room. Her aunts and grandmother, sobbing and beating their chests, paid her no mind. Everyone was lost in their own sorrow.
The woman reciting from the Qur'an slowly turned a page, glancing briefly at the girl.
Poor child, she thought. So young, and already without a mother or a father.
All Meryem could think was that this had to be some kind of joke.
Maybe Mama's just pretending. Maybe she's hiding somewhere, playing a game with me.
Her father had died when she was only two months in her mother's womb. Her mother had died just yesterday — on Meryem's eighth birthday, October 15th. The day had begun with joy. They had celebrated together, washed the dishes side by side, and her mother had tucked her into bed with another one of her famous "Lovers Who Never Meet" stories — tales Meryem had heard since she was a baby, so often that she could recite them by heart.
An idea flickered in her mind. She turned to the old woman beside her, who was fingering a rosary. That woman was her mother's aunt. Excited, Meryem grabbed her arm.
"Auntie," she whispered, eyes wide with hope. "If I tell those stories backwards, Mama will come back, right? She's just pretending, isn't she?"
The old woman's eyes filled instantly. She stroked Meryem's hair, unable to speak. Tears escaped despite her effort to hold them back. Finally, she whispered,
"She'll come, my dear. She'll come. You just keep praying for your mother, alright? Mothers never leave their children. She'll visit you, I promise."
Another aunt, the youngest, Ayşe, was asked to take Meryem outside. Wiping away her own tears, she led the child to the playground. Meryem's hope bloomed slightly at the words of the elderly aunt. Inside, whispers floated among the women: "Oh, poor thing…" "Maybe she shouldn't have said that…" "Why would a mother leave her tiny child?" "God grant her patience—she will understand when she grows up."
The evening passed with prayers and the solemn rituals of her mother's funeral. Once the visitors left, only close relatives remained. Meryem nestled beside her grandmother, feeling the quiet comfort of shared grief. Amid this stillness, one question hovered unspoken:
"What will become of Meryem?"
Her eldest aunt, Hatice—her mother's only twin—suggested that she remain with her grandmother. She could not be sent to an orphanage; they were a large family, after all.
Yet another aunt argued she should live with her paternal grandmother, so she could become accustomed to them too. Meryem was the last thread of memory to her brother Yunus. Tensions rose; voices sharpened, and only the intervention of her grandfathers prevented the conflict from erupting. In the end, a fragile compromise was reached: she would not leave her mother's home immediately, respecting the memory of the deceased.
Caught in the midst of this family storm, Meryem felt invisible. Her voice went unheard. She had never felt so small, so worthless. Had her mother been there, she would have been comforted. None of these adults were like her mother. That night, the absence of her mother struck her like a sharp slap, magnifying the loneliness that had already rooted itself within. She chose silence.
Slowly, everyone withdrew to their beds. Ayşe promised to stay with her and led her to sleep. For the first time, Meryem had to fall asleep without her mother's comforting presence or the familiar cadence of bedtime stories. Wrapped in her quilt, she wept quietly. Her aunt held her, gently stroking her hair until sleep finally claimed her. Her heart thumped violently, as if trying to escape her small chest, tangled in thoughts that pricked like electric thorns. She wanted nothing—neither food nor drink—and she cried, unheard, unshared.
Meryem was haunted by recurring nightmares. She had found her mother's lifeless body in the bathroom, wrists cut, and had clung to her in desperation, unable to rouse her. Death was incomprehensible to her then, too young to grasp it fully. Her whole body trembled; the horror only drew her closer to her mother's cold form. Hiccups wracked her tiny frame. Her heart ached. Night after night, the same dream replayed, each awakening bringing fresh tears. Surrounded by people yet utterly alone, Meryem's soul throbbed with grief.
Psychiatrists were consulted; antidepressants became her companions at a tender age. Memories blurred like glass jars she could not open, yet some things remained indelibly etched—her mother's stories.
For three years, she lived under the care of her grandmother, grandfather, and Aunt Ayşe. Her grandmother's devotion was fierce; she never left Meryem's side, sharing everything she had. Though spared an orphanage, arrangements were made for a small stipend to cover her needs.
At eleven, the death of her grandmother shook her once again. By now, grief was a constant companion. Death, to Meryem, was pure absence—taking loved ones, leaving only faint echoes. Her parents' faces, voices, and the warmth of their presence became hazy fragments, occasionally illuminated by the light of memory.
Even with medication, her mind remained fragile. Therapy became her fragile lifeline, though its solace was fleeting. School life continued, and Meryem's retreat into silence deepened. Teachers noticed only when her body gave out in despair.
Living with her father's family brought no respite. She felt cursed, believing herself a harbinger of misfortune. Labeled "mute" at school, friendless, she sought escape in self-harm—brief, searing relief that gradually became a consuming habit. Her arms and legs bore the marks, always concealed beneath long sleeves and trousers. Her mother's red sweater remained her only constant companion.
Yet she studied diligently, driven by one consuming wish: to bring her parents back. Her extraordinary intelligence went unnoticed, and she preferred it that way—no special treatment, only hope, only the possibility of undoing the cruel fate she had endured.
Two years later, she aced the high school entrance exam. Her first-choice school awaited. Yet it was near the home of Hatice—her least favorite aunt, whose children showed her nothing but disdain. Moving her belongings to a cramped, dimly lit room, Meryem faced a summer of monotony and solitude.
Still, the new school year brought a fragile hope. This year, she resolved, she would reach out. She would make friends. She would speak, and she would be kind. Even after years of suffocating loneliness, perhaps a flicker of hope could exist. Perhaps the darkness inside her might finally catch a glimmer of light.