The following night, I could not sleep.
I kept thinking about Hüma.
I knew her from conversations I had overheard and from Naciye's stories.
Yet strangely, the more often I thought about her, the more it felt as though I had once sat in a room with her.
A table.
An oil lamp.
A bowl of tarhana soup.
The sound of a small spoon touching the bowl.
Hüma sat there.
She watched me suspiciously.
I knew her expression.
I knew the way she spoke.
I even knew that she disliked Russians.
Strange.
I had never actually spoken to her.
And yet the memory of her felt clearer than the memory of some people I had met on the battlefield.
I opened my eyes.
The room was dark.
I was alone.
I touched my face.
“This is only a memory.”
But another voice inside me answered:
Is it really?
I sat up.
A few seconds later, there was a knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
“Who is it?”
There was no answer.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
“Şehsuvar?”
I froze.
That voice belonged to Naciye.
I almost stood up.
But then I remembered the forest.
I did not open the door.
“Naciye?”
“Yes.”
“Where is Hanim?”
There was no answer.
I waited.
Then the voice changed.
It became the voice of a small child.
“Şehsuvar.”
I gripped the rifle tighter.
“Hüma.”
“Open the door.”
“I'm cold.”
I closed my eyes.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you're not Hüma.”
Silence.
There were no more knocks.
I almost thought it was all over.
Then I heard laughter.
Not the voice of a child.
Not a human voice.
The laughter sounded like something learning how humans laughed.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
Then the voice changed into my father's.
“My son.”
I held my breath.
I had not heard that voice in years.
Yet I recognized it at once.
Every pause.
Every breath.
Even the way he said my name.
“Still haven't learned?”
“Learned what?”
“That a door won't save you.”
I stood.
“Go away.”
The voice laughed again.
“You're starting to recognize me.”
Then I heard footsteps moving away.
One.
Two.
Three.
I waited until the sound had completely disappeared.
But I did not go back to sleep.
I sat there until morning, rifle in hand.
Not because I was afraid something would come through the door.
I was afraid something was already inside my head.
When the sun rose, I found Hanim sitting outside.
He was holding a cup of coffee that was almost cold.
“I heard it,” he said.
I looked at him.
“What?”
“That voice.”
I did not answer.
“It called my name.”
“Did you open the door?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Hanim looked at the surface of his coffee.
“At first, I heard my mother's voice.”
I fell silent.
“She died when I was still a child,” he continued.
“The voice asked me to come home.”
“You believed it?”
“For a few seconds.”
“Then?”
“I realized something was wrong.”
“What?”
“My mother never called me by my full name.”
I looked at Hanim.
“She only called me Hanim.”
“And that voice?”
“It called me like I was a stranger.”
I nodded slowly.
The creature was not perfect.
It could steal voices.
It could steal memories.
But perhaps it still did not truly understand the humans it imitated.
Hanim looked at me.
“Şehsuvar.”
“Yes?”
“What do you think it really wants?”
I looked at the mountains.
“I don't know.”
“It could kill us.”
“Yes.”
“But it hasn't.”
I fell silent.
Hanim continued:
“In the forest, it had the chance.”
“Over and over.”
“But instead, it made us afraid of one another.”
I looked at him.
“So?”
“Maybe it doesn't eat bodies.”
“Then what?”
Hanim shook his head.
“Maybe it eats something else.”
I immediately remembered my father's voice.
Mustafa.
Hüma.
Naciye.
I felt cold spread down my back.
“Memories.”
Hanim looked at me.
“Maybe.”
I lowered my head.
If that suspicion was true, then the more often we remembered those we had lost, the more material that thing would have to use.
And if so...
perhaps forgetting them was the only way to survive.
But I soon realized that was impossible.
In a place like this, memories were the only thing that still made us feel human.
We might lose our homes.
Our families.
Our friends.
Even parts of ourselves.
But as long as we still remembered their names, they were not truly gone.
I stood and looked at the mountains.
“Then we must not forget them.”
Hanim looked at me.
“Even if that makes it stronger?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I gripped my rifle.
“Because I'm more afraid of becoming someone who no longer remembers whom I once loved.”
Hanim did not answer.
For a while, we simply stood in silence.
Then, from far away, we heard the voice of a small child.
“Şehsuvar...”
We both froze.
Scary... scary... sooooo scary... (^.^)(^.^)(^.^)(^.^)(^.^)
The voice came from behind the trees.
Hüma.
I looked at Hanim.
Hanim slowly shook his head.
“Don't answer.”
I knew.
But this time, the voice did not call for me again.
It only laughed.
Then it disappeared with the morning mist.