What is Elif Teacher hiding? And why did she sound as if she had been waiting all along? Elif's house is only a five-minute walk from the library. When she opens the door, she doesn't look surprised. She looks as if she's been expecting them for years, not minutes. Come in, she says simply.
I'll make some coffee. Inside, the house is small but tidy. Old photographs line the walls, and the shelves are filled with books that look older than the building itself. Büşra sets the phone on the table, turning the photo so Elif can see it clearly. Elif returns with two cups, glances at the screen, and falls silent. She stares at it for a long time, longer than anyone expects.
I never wanted to see that light again, she finally says, her voice shaking slightly. Do you know this tower? Nail asks. Instead of answering, Elif walks to an old cabinet in the corner and pulls open the bottom drawer. It creaks, as if it has not been opened in years. She takes out a worn, faded notebook.
On its cover, written in ink that has almost disappeared, is a name. Büşra reads it aloud. It is the same name Ahmet Bey mentioned, the journalist who vanished forty years ago. I knew him, Elif says, holding the notebook against her chest. Since I was a child. He used to live in our neighborhood.
He was the one who taught me how to read. The room falls silent. Two days before he disappeared, he knocked on my door, she continues. He was holding a small envelope. He handed it to me and said, Only open this when the right time comes. Then he left.
I never saw him again. Do you still have it? Lena asks, almost in a whisper. Elif nods. From between the pages of the notebook, she pulls out a small, yellowed envelope. It looks as if no one has touched it in forty years.
I've never opened it, she admits. I never knew when the right time would be. She glances at the photo again. Maybe that time is now. She sets the envelope on the table. No one moves.
No one reaches for it. Slowly, Elif slides it across the table, toward Büşra. Open it, she says. I think it was always meant for you. Büşra's hands tremble slightly as she picks it up. The paper feels thin, almost fragile, beneath her fingers.
It feels as if it could tear if she isn't careful. She looks around the room. Everyone is watching. No one says a word. What is inside the envelope? And why did the journalist leave it with Elif instead of anyone else?