AYDA

Some cities hide their secrets at night… like Istanbul. But this secret isn’t above ground; it lives beneath the water, the stone, the shadows.

That night, the underground awakened.

And a police officer — Ayda — was there by chance… or perhaps not by chance at all.

She was running into the darkness without knowing where or why. All she knew was that she had to run. She had to escape.

If she stopped, she felt certain she would die. Her heart was pounding as if it would break out of her chest. She was drenched in sweat; she didn’t know how long she’d been running, yet her legs felt no pain.

Her gaze dropped to her feet—and suddenly she stumbled, crashing onto the wet ground. The stone walls seemed to be closing in on her. The moisture and humidity made it hard to breathe.

She tried to push herself up, but the walls were covered in moss; the more she tried to hold on, the more she slipped. Behind her, footsteps approached.

The darkness drew closer.

But the path ahead was already pitch-black.

The darkness was suffocating her.

She kept falling, unable to move forward.

Ayda had nothing left. Exhaustion consumed her. She surrendered herself to the cold, wet floor. The footsteps were approaching. They echoed through the stone tunnel, growing louder. Ayda had accepted whatever was about to happen.

The closer the footsteps came, the faster her heart pounded. Her body felt heavier; her stomach turned to stone.

The water level was rising.

As if the water were forming a shield around her — to protect her.

First her hands and feet were submerged, then her whole body.

The nearer the footsteps got, the faster the water rose.

Was she afraid of the thing in the darkness?

Or of drowning?

Ayda jolted awake from her sleep. She no longer needed an alarm; the clock showed 5:18 a.m. again.

The same dream.

The same crescent-shaped nail marks in her palms.

The same sweat-soaked sheets.

She was tired of this nightmare she’d been having for a while now. She blamed it on the stress — she was in the middle of her promotion process.

Snow was falling outside. A rare sight in Istanbul. She thought about the traffic chaos it would cause; she didn’t want to be late for work. She stood by the window for a moment, watching the snowflakes drifting under the streetlamp’s glow.

She loved snow. It reminded her of purity, innocence — and most of all, of her childhood.

Maybe that’s why she loved snow globes so much. There were 10–15 lined up on her windowsill.

She picked one up. Inside, a ballerina was turning slowly as glittering snow swirled around her.

Looking at it, Ayda felt as if her own life were a snow globe — like she was trapped inside a giant glass sphere.

Sometimes an unseen force would shake that globe, and everything in her life would come crashing down around her.

The thought made her laugh for a moment.

“If only the things falling over me were just snow,” she mused.

Without wasting more time, Ayda got ready and left her apartment.

She was a lieutenant in the homicide division, aiming for the rank of chief inspector — and that pressure had her on edge lately.

At 35, it was considered young for the promotion. But Ayda was determined and stubborn in her work.

She changed quickly, combed her dark brown hair, and stepped outside.

A red envelope in the apartment mailbox caught her eye.

Amid the bills, it looked like a warning sign.

Her name was written on it — but no sender.

Not wanting to be late, she slipped it into her bag to open later and walked into the icy Istanbul morning.

It had been a busy day despite her intention to stay at the bureau and “just finish paperwork.” Around 4 p.m., overwhelmed by the files, she grabbed a coffee and sat back down at her desk.

Then she remembered the red envelope.

How had she forgotten it?

She reached into her bag and pulled it out. Its vivid red color still seemed freshly painted. She ran her fingers over her name and opened it.

Two things fell out:

First: a pearl-white metro ticket. On it was written only:

“Tonight. Dress Code: Black.”

Second: a stained piece of paper torn from an old notebook. The ink was smudged, as if written in haste.

“Some sounds can’t be heard, but they don’t disappear.

Can you hear them?”

Ayda hesitated.

Was this some kind of promotional stunt?

What kind of event was this?

A prank?

She wanted to throw it away… yet the more she tried, the heavier the envelope felt — as if she wasn’t the one holding it, but it was holding her. The mystery was pulling her in.

Unable to focus any longer, she grabbed her coat and decided to go home.

She tried to remember the last time she had worn a dress, but couldn’t.

Had police work really changed her that much?

She found herself surprised at the thought.

Maybe she should attend events like this more often. Because she genuinely liked the woman she saw in the mirror — a simple black dress that clung elegantly to her body, her wavy brown hair, smoky eye makeup, pale skin… her confidence returned.

If only the invitation wasn’t for one person, she thought. She would’ve invited Sarp.

Sarp was her partner.

At least that’s what they told themselves.

Everyone else saw an incredibly stubborn yet intensely magnetic pair. Whenever someone commented on it, both denied it furiously.

Odd, considering they couldn’t stay away from each other.

She picked up her phone, considered texting him — but what would she say?

She dropped the idea, put on her coat, and left.

She took a taxi to the Sirkeci metro station, where the train mentioned on the ticket would depart.

The city was quiet; the air felt heavy. Snow was still falling.

Istanbul always retreated into a strange silence when it snowed.

At the station, the turnstiles were closed.

No schedule.

No advertisements.

The tracks glistened with an oily sheen.

No one was waiting.

Strange. She couldn’t be the only guest.

A train’s distant hum grew louder.

It arrived on a special, unused line in Sirkeci — clearly arranged for this event.

The train stopped. Silent.

The doors didn’t open automatically.

There were no lights inside, but somehow the darkness revealed everything.

Ayda hesitated. She didn’t want to board alone.

Just then, an elderly couple approached behind her. Elegantly dressed in black.

“Good evening. Are you going to the ballet as well, miss?” the old man asked.

A ballet?

So that’s what this was.

She nodded, letting them board first.

The train waited a few minutes as others arrived, then began moving slowly.

And that’s when Ayda realized:

She didn’t know where the train was heading.

But she knew she wouldn’t be coming back.

Why didn’t the envelope mention a ballet?

Or had she overlooked it?

And why not simply give the name of the venue?

Seeing the couples, Ayda felt a pang of regret for not texting Sarp.

As she wrestled with that thought, the train let out a piercing brake sound and slowed to a halt.