Beyond the Record

There was a huge table—long and crowded to the maximum. I was sitting at the very corner. The crowd was starting to catch my attention more; I was realizing that I barely recognized anyone at the table, so I began studying their faces more carefully. I felt happy, just like everyone else there.

A slight shiver ran through me as something brushed my hand. I looked down—it was the tablecloth. So beautiful, elegant, and white… Its edges were trimmed with lace, and it felt so soft. It gave me a sense of innocence, like a snow globe.

Behind the table, a puppy caught my eye. Even though it was young, its bark was loud and assertive, as if trying to warn me about what was coming. It seemed to say, “Be careful, Beyza.” My inner voice told me to heed it, though I wasn’t entirely sure why.

While I was thinking about the puppy, I noticed the broken-tube television beside it. What was that? Could it have been a sign? Had the dog tried to warn me about this? Lost in my thoughts, the television suddenly exploded. Along with it, that peaceful table shattered.

I woke up with my hand on my stomach, trying to protect my baby; I was drenched in sweat and blood. The explosion still echoed in my ears. Opening my eyes, my room was dark, quiet, and calm—but my heart refused to accept it, stubbornly racing. I didn’t even want to move for a while. First, my heart had to settle from the shock, and my breathing had to regain its rhythm. But I couldn’t bring myself to remove my hand from my stomach. It felt as if the baby was still there—not just the one I missed, but other things that didn’t quite fit either.

Eventually, I sat up and took a sip of water from the glass on the wooden nightstand. I washed my face. The cold water was a relief, even if only a little. Lately, I had been having too many dreams like this. Sometimes I wondered if they were signs, sometimes I convinced myself they were just my imagination. But there was a reason it made sense to wonder about signs.

Seven years ago, today—Thursday, June 7th, at 13:43—I opened my eyes in a hospital. I remembered the exact time because my eyes met the clock the moment I woke. I would replay memories of that place over and over: the cold blue walls, the nurses’ forced smiles, the doctor saying, “Be careful.”

Saying I remember is a bit ironic, because after the accident my memory had completely vanished. The doctor said there was a small chance I could recall, but I didn’t believe it. Even now, I still don’t remember. Sometimes fragments flash before my eyes, that’s all. Nothing is clear.

When I was discharged, I decided: whoever I had been before, I would create a new self. I had no idea who or what I was. There was no one by my side. No one who knew me, loved me, or even wondered about me… I had no identity; no missing-person report had been filed. Could someone be so invisible while being so strange?

It took years to rebuild myself. First, I lived on the streets, then I stayed in shelters run by volunteers helping the homeless. They called it “Rebirth.” I still remember those days—I had neither bread to eat nor a place to sleep.

It was just another ordinary day. After dinner with my fellow residents, I was tidying up. Occasionally, visitors would come—people wanting to help or atone for a bad deed. Normally, I would explain the rules, the organization, and where everything belonged. I liked talking to people. Even now, if someone asked a question, they would just be directed to me.

But that day, perhaps because of the dream, I wasn’t in the mood. I had asked my friend Hülya to handle things instead. When a man entered, I glanced at Hülya, but she wasn’t around. I had to talk to him myself.

The man stopped abruptly as he stepped inside. His eyes locked on me, like he had seen a ghost.

“This… can’t be…” he whispered. His hazel eyes carried a mix of panic, joy, and fear.

I found it strange that he was staring so intently. I didn’t look away, though I felt the need to speak.

“Excuse me?” I said.

He took a step closer. His face had lost its color. Behind that tall, imposing figure, it was as if a small, anxious child was asking:

“You… you didn’t die?”

My ears rang. Suddenly, I was back in the middle of the explosion from my dream.

I showed nothing on my face.

“You must be confusing me with someone else.”

He shook his head, still fixated on me.

“No… you…” he started. His lips formed a name but didn’t finish. He swallowed hard.

For a moment, I thought he was really going to say it.

Then he stepped back.

“I got it wrong. Sorry.”

But his eyes didn’t apologize. He was certain.

And I realized then: he didn’t know my name. But my heart recognized something.