1. Ayla
The first flakes of winter drifted lazily through the sky, settling softly on the cobbled streets below. Ayla’s room, tucked above the corner book-lending shop, was painted a cheerful shade of yellow — an attempt to capture sunlight even on the grayest of days. Minimal but inviting, it smelled faintly of coffee, old books, and the lavender sachets tucked into the drawers. A small window framed the street outside, where people hurried past in scarves and coats, and the snowflakes danced on the wind, swaying like tiny performers in a quiet ballet.
Ayla’s morning began with the precision of habit. She slid her feet into worn slippers, tied her dark brown hair into a loose braid, and brewed a small pot of coffee before leaving her little sunlit room. She walked down the narrow cobbled street, the snow crunching softly under her shoes, enjoying the quiet rhythm of her steps. By the time she reached the café she managed, the early morning chill had kissed her cheeks and flushed her nose pink.
The café was her sanctuary. Centrally heated, warm light spilled from tall windows onto the street, reflecting off polished wooden tables and chairs arranged in cozy clusters. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweetness of pastries — cinnamon buns, chocolate croissants, and fruit tarts lined the glass display, each one almost too beautiful to eat. The gentle chatter of regulars filled the air, punctuated by the soft hiss of the espresso machine and the clinking of cups. Every corner seemed to hold a story, from the shelf of old books in one nook to the small chalkboard listing the day’s specials: “Pumpkin spice latte, freshly baked scones, and honey almond cake.”
Behind the counter, Leo, the friendly male cashier, greeted each customer with a cheerful smile, his dark hair neatly combed. Mira, the teasing waitress, winked at Ayla whenever her admirer came in, letting the young woman blush just slightly before returning to her routine. And Mr. Cem, the café’s round, jolly owner, clapped his hands together whenever he saw Ayla, asking warmly, “How’s my favorite sunshine today?” His laugh was loud, contagious, and always made the café feel like home.
Ayla moved efficiently between the tables, carrying steaming cups to patrons and exchanging smiles with those who greeted her by name. There was a small, quiet thrill she could not deny — the familiarity of her routines, the little human connections she nurtured each day. And then there was the young man who came every morning at precisely nine forty-five, collecting his coffee with a polite nod and a smile that tugged at her chest in ways she refused to name. It was harmless, she told herself. She was far too busy for distractions.
Sundays were hers alone. She often helped the landlady with the book-lending shop downstairs, dusting shelves and sorting books in the warm quiet of the sunlit store. That morning, while straightening the spines of novels, she stumbled upon a worn copy with a peculiar cover: a creature with glowing eyes and fangs lurking in a forest. The Hidden Bonds, the title read.
The landlady, peeking over her spectacles from the counter, chuckled softly. “Kids these days… reading anything. Do you really think creatures like these exist?” she muttered, shaking her head.
Ayla only smiled in return. A faint shiver passed through her memory — a night long ago filled with strange, unnamable sounds, the smell of iron and fear, a hidden room. She shook her head gently and dismissed it. That was a ghost from a life long past, a fragment that did not belong in her careful, measured present.
While Ayla might have shrugged the thought off, somewhere not very far away amidst the mountains, the floor just felt the thud of heavy feet as nightmares didn’t let Emir sleep peacefully and now he needed to do what freed him the most. Run. On his four legs.
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