I Choose You

~Melek~

I ran.

The darkness swallowed everything around me.

The road beneath my bare feet was cold and uneven, but I couldn't stop.

I couldn't slow down.

The white fabric of my wedding dress twisted around my legs, catching on stones and thorns as I ran through the night.

Somewhere behind me...

Voices called my name.

Angry.

Demanding.

Getting closer.

"Melek!"

I lifted the heavy skirt with both hands and forced myself to move faster.

My lungs burned.

My heart slammed painfully against my ribs.

The veil covering my hair caught on a branch and pulled my head backwards.

I cried out, tore it free and kept running.

The darkness ahead of me seemed endless.

There were no lights.

No houses.

No place to hide.

Only the sound of footsteps behind me.

And his voice.

"You belong to me."

My entire body went cold.

I looked over my shoulder.

For one terrifying moment...

I saw him.

Murat.

His face was hidden in shadow, but I recognised the cruel curve of his smile.

He reached for me.

His fingers caught the back of my dress.

The fabric tightened around my throat.

I screamed.

"No!"

***

My eyes flew open.

A sharp breath tore from my lungs as I jerked upright.

For several seconds...

I had no idea where I was.

The darkness was still there.

The low, steady hum surrounded me.

Tiny lights glowed above rows of sleeping strangers.

My fingers gripped the blanket covering my legs.

Then...

I remembered.

The airplane.

London.

I was on my way to London.

I slowly released the breath trapped inside my chest.

It had only been a dream.

My wedding dress was not wrapped around my legs.

Murat was not behind me.

Nobody was chasing me through the darkness.

I pressed one trembling hand against my forehead.

My skin was damp with sweat despite the cool air inside the cabin.

The woman sitting beside me remained asleep, her head tilted towards the window and a travel pillow tucked beneath her chin.

Most of the passengers around us were sleeping too.

Some had blankets pulled up to their shoulders.

Others rested against the windows.

The cabin lights had been dimmed for the night, leaving only the soft blue glow along the aisle.

I turned my head towards the small oval window.

There was nothing beyond it except darkness.

No Istanbul.

No London.

Only a black sky and the faint reflection of my own frightened face.

I looked exhausted.

My long brown hair had begun slipping loose from the low ponytail I'd tied before boarding.

There were shadows beneath my eyes.

My cheeks looked paler than usual.

I barely recognised myself.

Maybe that was a good thing.

The woman reflected in the glass was no longer the daughter who had to follow rules she had never chosen.

She was no longer Murat Yilmaz's future wife.

She was simply...

Melek.

I had escaped.

The thought should have filled me with relief.

Instead, another wave of fear moved through me.

I pulled the thin airline blanket higher, wrapping it tightly around my body.

My hands were freezing.

Actually...

Everything felt cold.

My arms.

My feet.

The centre of my chest.

It was fear.

The kind that settled beneath the skin and refused to leave.

I closed my eyes again, but I didn't attempt to sleep.

I couldn't risk returning to that dream.

Instead...

I began listing everything I knew.

A flat was waiting for me.

I would have somewhere to sleep.

Somewhere safe.

Nihan had pressed the key into my palm two nights earlier, moments before helping me leave Istanbul.

Her eyes had been filled with tears.

"Don't lose this."

She had whispered.

"It's yours for as long as you need it."

The flat belonged to her.

She had lived there during the year we'd studied together in London, but it had been empty since she returned to Istanbul almost two years ago.

She had never sold it.

Never rented it out.

She claimed she liked knowing that a part of her still belonged to London.

Now...

That part of her was going to protect me.

I tightened my fingers around the small handbag resting in my lap.

The key was inside.

I had checked at least twenty times since arriving at the airport.

My passport.

My wallet.

My phone.

The key.

Everything I needed to begin again was inside that bag.

A job was waiting too.

Nihan had arranged it through an old family friend, Mr Johnson.

He owned a small independent library in London and had needed help for months.

When Nihan told him about me, she had not shared everything.

Only that I had studied literature and child development, that I spoke fluent English and that I needed work immediately.

Apparently, that had been enough.

Mr Johnson had agreed to meet me before I'd even purchased my plane ticket.

By the time I left Istanbul...

The job was mine.

I had savings too.

Not enough to live carelessly.

But enough to cover food, transport and everything else for the first few months while I learned how to live alone.

I was prepared.

At least...

I was prepared on paper.

I had an education.

I was capable.

I could cook.

I could clean.

I could manage money.

I had lived in London before.

Three years ago, I had spent an entire year here as an exchange student.

I knew how to use the Underground.

I knew how to order tea without making the barista repeat herself.

I knew that London rain had a way of appearing even when the sky had looked perfectly harmless five minutes earlier.

But back then...

I had not been alone.

I had Nihan.

We had met during our first week at university when she sat beside me in a crowded lecture hall and whispered that the professor's voice sounded like someone reading instructions for assembling furniture.

I had laughed so suddenly that everyone turned towards us.

By lunch...

We were inseparable.

She had made London feel smaller.

Warmer.

Less frightening.

We explored museums together.

Got lost on buses.

Shared cheap meals and expensive dreams about our futures.

But this time...

Nihan wasn't beside me.

She was still in Istanbul, pretending she knew nothing about my disappearance.

Risking the anger of my family if they ever discovered what she had done.

I swallowed the guilt rising in my throat.

She had helped me because I had run out of options.

Because staying meant marrying Murat.

Because marrying Murat meant slowly disappearing inside a life I had never chosen.

I placed one hand over my heart and forced myself to breathe.

I was afraid.

But fear did not mean I had made the wrong choice.

It only meant the choice mattered.

***

A soft chime echoed through the cabin.

Several passengers stirred as the captain's voice came through the speakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly begin our descent into London Heathrow. Please ensure your seatbelts are securely fastened and your seats and tray tables are in the upright position."

My heart skipped.

London.

I opened the window shade fully.

At first, there was still only darkness.

Then...

Slowly...

Tiny lights appeared beneath the clouds.

Hundreds of them.

Then thousands.

Roads curved through the night like glowing ribbons.

Neighbourhoods spread beneath us in neat clusters of yellow and white.

London seemed endless from above.

Larger than I remembered.

More intimidating too.

I pressed my fingertips against the cold glass.

Somewhere down there was my new home.

My new job.

My new life.

A life no one had chosen for me.

The aircraft descended lower.

The lights grew clearer.

Cars moved along the motorways like tiny sparks.

Dark patches of parks and fields interrupted the glowing city.

I felt the woman beside me stir.

She opened her eyes, glanced out of the window and smiled sleepily.

"Home?"

She asked.

I looked at the city below.

The word caught somewhere inside my chest.

"Not yet."

I answered quietly.

"But perhaps it will be."

***

By the time I walked through Heathrow Airport, collected my luggage and reached the taxi rank, the sky had begun turning pale.

Morning crept slowly over London.

The cold air outside the terminal touched my face and made me shiver.

I tightened my coat around myself and waited while the driver placed my two suitcases into the boot.

"Where to, love?"

He asked as I climbed into the back seat.

I gave him the address.

He repeated it once, then nodded.

"Right, then."

The taxi pulled away from the airport.

For the first few minutes...

I watched the unfamiliar roads in silence.

Then the city slowly began revealing itself.

Rows of brick houses stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the grey morning sky.

Some had tiny front gardens bordered by low iron fences.

Others had climbing ivy wrapped around their walls.

Red buses moved through the traffic.

Black taxis passed us in the opposite direction.

Cyclists hurried along damp streets while pedestrians walked with paper cups tucked between gloved hands.

London looked exactly as I remembered...

And completely different.

Istanbul had always felt alive in a loud, restless way.

The calls of street sellers.

The horns of impatient drivers.

The Bosphorus glittering beneath the sun.

The scent of coffee, grilled meat and sea air mixing in crowded streets.

London was quieter.

More reserved.

Its beauty did not demand attention.

It waited patiently behind rain-darkened brick, white window frames and narrow streets.

As we travelled deeper into the city, modern glass buildings rose beside centuries-old churches.

Elegant town houses stood only a few streets away from noisy shopping districts.

Morning mist softened the rooftops.

The Thames appeared briefly between the buildings, grey and calm beneath the pale sky.

I leaned closer to the window.

I had forgotten how London could look both grand and lonely at the same time.

A city filled with millions of people...

Yet capable of making one person feel completely invisible.

Strangely...

That thought comforted me.

In Istanbul, my family name followed me everywhere.

Here...

Nobody knew who I was.

Nobody knew who my father was.

Nobody knew Murat.

I was simply another woman arriving in London with two suitcases and a destination written on her phone.

For the first time in my life...

Being unknown felt like freedom.

The taxi turned onto a quieter street lined with trees and old brick houses.

Small cafés were beginning to open.

A woman arranged flowers outside a corner shop.

Someone walked a sleepy golden retriever along the pavement.

The city was waking.

And as I watched it through the rain-speckled window...

A small, uncertain smile appeared on my face.

I was still afraid.

But beneath the fear...

Something else had begun to grow.

Hope.

The taxi slowed before a small brick building tucked away on a quiet residential street.

"This is you, love."

I looked out of the window.

A smile immediately found its way onto my face.

It was even prettier than I remembered from the photos Nihan had sent me.

The building wasn't large.

Only two flats.

One on the ground floor.

One upstairs.

Its warm red bricks were softened by climbing ivy that stretched lazily around one side of the façade.

White-framed windows reflected the gentle morning sunlight, while a narrow stone path led from the pavement to the dark green front door.

Small flower beds surrounded the entrance.

Lavender.

White roses.

Hydrangeas in shades of pale blue.

Everything looked loved.

Lived in.

Peaceful.

The complete opposite of the grand mansion I'd left behind in Istanbul.

The taxi driver placed my suitcases beside the front gate.

I thanked him, paid for the journey and watched as the black cab disappeared around the corner.

For a few seconds...

I simply stood there.

One suitcase in each hand.

Breathing.

This was it.

My new beginning.

As I walked toward the entrance, I noticed someone kneeling beside one of the flower beds.

An elderly woman wearing gardening gloves carefully pressed fresh soil around a small lavender plant.

She looked up when she heard my footsteps.

"Oh!"

Her face immediately brightened.

"You must be Melek."

I smiled, surprised.

"I am."

She stood up slowly, dusting the soil from her gloves before extending one hand.

"I'm Mabel."

"I live downstairs."

"It's lovely to finally meet you."

Her smile was warm.

The kind that instantly made you feel welcome.

I shook her hand.

"It's lovely to meet you too."

"I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Oh goodness, not at all."

She laughed softly.

"I've been hoping you'd arrive today."

"Nihan wrote to me."

"She told me a lovely young woman would be moving upstairs."

I felt my shoulders relax.

Somehow...

Knowing someone had expected me made London feel a little less lonely.

Mrs Mabel looked toward my suitcases.

"My word..."

"You've brought your whole life with you."

I smiled politely.

"I suppose I have."

She nodded knowingly.

"Well..."

"If you ever need anything..."

"A cup of sugar."

"A screwdriver."

"A chat."

"Or simply someone to drink tea with..."

She pointed toward her own front door.

"...just knock."

"If I can help..."

"I will."

Something tightened gently inside my chest.

Kindness.

Simple, genuine kindness.

I hadn't realised how desperately I'd needed it.

"Thank you."

"I really appreciate that."

She smiled again.

"I'm putting the kettle on around one o'clock."

"Why don't you join me once you've settled in?"

"I've made far too many little sandwiches."

"And I have a weakness for biscuits."

I laughed quietly.

"I'd love to."

"Wonderful."

She clapped her hands together.

"Now..."

"I'll let you get settled."

"And welcome home, dear."

Home.

The word lingered in my mind as she disappeared back into her garden.

Home.

I looked up.

The staircase leading to the first floor waited beside the entrance.

My heart began beating faster.

This time...

Not from fear.

From excitement.

I picked up my suitcases and climbed the narrow wooden staircase.

The hallway upstairs was small but bright.

There was only one door.

Nihan's flat.

Or...

Mine.

At least for now.

I reached into my handbag and wrapped my fingers around the key.

For a moment...

I simply stood there.

Everything that had happened over the past month...

Every tear.

Every sleepless night.

Every lie I'd told to protect my escape...

Had led me here.

I slid the key into the lock.

It turned with a quiet click.

Taking one slow breath...

I pushed the door open.

A faint smell of dust and closed windows greeted me.

The flat was completely silent.

Dark.

Still.

No one had lived there for almost two years.

I stepped inside and gently closed the door behind me.

For the first time...

I was completely alone.

I placed my suitcases beside the wall and stood quietly in the middle of the living room.

The silence felt different here.

Not heavy.

Not uncomfortable.

Simply...

Peaceful.

Dust floated lazily through the narrow beams of morning sunlight that slipped around the closed blinds.

The air felt slightly stale, carrying the unmistakable scent of a home that had been waiting patiently for someone to return.

I smiled to myself.

"Let's fix that."

I walked from window to window, pulling up each blind one by one.

Warm morning sunlight instantly flooded the flat.

The transformation was almost magical.

The living room was cosy rather than large.

A soft cream sofa stood opposite a wooden coffee table, accompanied by a matching armchair positioned beside the window.

Bookshelves lined one wall, still holding dozens of novels Nihan had never taken back to Istanbul.

A knitted throw rested neatly over the arm of the sofa as if someone had left only yesterday instead of two years ago.

Small green plants sat along the windowsill, surprisingly still alive.

I laughed quietly.

"Nihan..."

Only she could accidentally keep plants alive after abandoning them for two years.

Beyond the living room was a tiny kitchen.

White cupboards.

Wooden worktops.

Open shelves filled with mugs, plates and little jars labelled in neat handwriting.

Nothing expensive.

Nothing extravagant.

Just warm.

Inviting.

The bedroom was just as lovely.

A double bed stood beneath the window, dressed in a faded duvet that had collected a thin layer of dust.

Beside it stood two small oak bedside tables and a tall wardrobe painted white.

The bathroom was simple but bright.

Fresh white tiles.

A walk-in shower.

A round mirror above the sink.

Everything I needed.

Then...

I noticed the glass door.

Curious, I stepped outside.

A small terrace overlooked the quiet street below.

Two wooden chairs stood beside a little round table.

Flower boxes lined the railing, waiting for someone to fill them again.

The trees across the road swayed gently in the morning breeze.

Somewhere nearby...

A church bell chimed.

A cyclist passed beneath me.

Someone laughed in the distance.

I rested both hands on the railing.

This...

This was my favourite place.

I already knew it.

Not because it was beautiful.

Although it was.

But because it was mine.

For the first time in my life...

I had a place that belonged only to me.

No servants.

No security guards.

No family members deciding who could visit.

No one knocking without permission.

Only me.

I stayed there for another minute before rolling up my sleeves.

The flat wasn't going to clean itself.

I found the vacuum cleaner tucked away inside a cupboard.

Then a bucket.

A mop.

Cleaning products.

I opened every window before getting to work.

Dust disappeared from the furniture.

The wooden floors slowly began shining again.

I vacuumed every room, even the sofa and armchair before changing the vacuum attachment and carefully cleaning the mattress too.

Fresh air drifted through the open windows while music played quietly from my phone resting on the kitchen counter.

For the first time in weeks...

I caught myself humming.

After wiping every surface, scrubbing the bathroom until it sparkled and cleaning the kitchen from top to bottom, I unpacked my suitcases.

I folded my clothes neatly into the wardrobe.

Placed my books onto the shelves.

Set framed photographs of Nihan and me from our university days on the bookshelf.

One picture made me smile.

We were standing in front of Tower Bridge, soaked after getting caught in unexpected rain, laughing so hard neither of us could look at the camera.

"I miss you already."

I whispered.

Once everything had its place, I spread clean white bedding across the mattress before hanging fresh cream curtains by the bedroom window.

The entire flat smelled different now.

Cleaner.

Lighter.

Alive.

Satisfied, I glanced at the clock.

Just enough time for a shower before visiting Mrs Mabel.

The hot water washed away the exhaustion clinging to my body.

When I finished, I dried my hair before leaving it loose over my shoulders.

For a moment I considered tying it back again.

Instead...

I clipped back the front strands with a small cream hair clip and let the rest fall freely down my back.

Then I opened the wardrobe.

After travelling for two days, I wanted to wear something that felt like me.

I chose a short black floral dress with tiny vintage flowers scattered across the fabric. The row of buttons down the front gave it a timeless charm.

Over it, I slipped into an oversized charcoal knitted cardigan, soft enough to disappear into whenever the world felt too overwhelming.

I pulled on sheer black tights before lacing up my well-worn black leather boots.

Practical.

Comfortable.

Still unmistakably me.

Exactly how I liked to dress.

I pulled on a pair of white trainers, picked up my phone and keys, then looked at myself in the mirror one last time.

The dark circles beneath my eyes hadn't disappeared.

But something else had appeared instead.

Hope.

It suited me much better.

Mrs Mabel's door was already open before I even reached it.

She looked up from arranging a small plate of biscuits and smiled warmly.

"Oh, there you are, dear."

"I hope I'm not late."

"Not at all."

She stepped aside.

"Come in."

The little flat downstairs felt wonderfully lived in.

Family photographs covered nearly every shelf.

Fresh flowers stood in tiny glass vases.

A clock ticked softly somewhere in the background.

The scent of freshly brewed tea filled every corner of the room.

Mrs Mabel led me into a cosy dining room where a lace tablecloth covered the small wooden table.

A porcelain teapot rested in the middle beside tiny sandwiches, homemade biscuits and slices of Victoria sponge cake.

"I wasn't sure what you liked," she said almost apologetically.

"So I made a little bit of everything."

I couldn't help smiling.

"It all looks wonderful."

She poured tea into delicate floral cups before sitting opposite me.

"You speak beautiful English."

I laughed softly.

"I should hope so. I studied here for a year."

"Oh?"

She leaned forward with genuine interest.

"University exchange?"

"Yes."

"I absolutely fell in love with London."

"And yet you went back."

"I had to."

Mrs Mabel simply nodded.

She didn't ask why.

Instead she reached for a silver picture frame standing nearby.

"These are my grandchildren."

She handed it to me.

Three smiling children.

Two girls.

One little boy missing his front teeth.

"They're adorable."

"They're growing up far too quickly."

She chuckled.

"My daughter keeps telling me I'll blink and they'll all be leaving for university."

I smiled.

"My mother used to say the same."

Mrs Mabel's expression softened.

"And this..."

She picked up another photograph.

"...is my Arthur."

An elderly gentleman smiled back from the frame.

Kind eyes.

Gentle smile.

"He passed away six years ago."

"I'm so sorry."

"We were married for forty-seven years."

She smiled through the sadness.

"I still make enough tea for two."

Neither of us spoke for a few seconds.

Then she laughed quietly.

"Old habits."

I smiled with her.

"They're the hardest to lose."

She poured us both another cup before encouraging me to try one of the little sandwiches.

I took a bite.

The moment I did...

I realised just how hungry I was.

I'd barely eaten anything since leaving Istanbul.

Not properly.

Not without feeling sick from fear.

"This is delicious."

"I'm glad."

She looked genuinely pleased.

"You must have had quite the journey."

"I did."

"What brings you to London, dear?"

The question lingered between us.

I looked down into my teacup.

"A fresh start."

It wasn't a lie.

Just not the whole truth.

Mrs Mabel studied me for a brief moment before giving a gentle nod.

"Sometimes that's exactly what a person needs."

No more questions.

No curiosity.

No pressure.

Only kindness.

By the time we finished our tea, I felt strangely lighter.

As I stood to leave, Mrs Mabel walked me to the door.

"If you ever feel lonely..."

She smiled warmly.

"...my kettle is usually on."

I laughed.

"I'll remember that."

"And if you need sugar, flour, advice or someone to complain about the weather with..."

She winked.

"...I'm downstairs."

"I think I'm going to like having you as my neighbour."

"Oh, I know I shall like having you as mine."

We hugged briefly before I stepped back outside.

The afternoon sun warmed the quiet street.

I checked the time.

My first day at Johnson's Bookshop was about to begin.

A flutter of nerves returned to my stomach.

Not fear this time.

Excitement.

Real excitement.

I flagged down a black cab.

"Mayfair, please."

As the taxi disappeared into London's busy streets, I watched the city pass by through the window.

This time...

It finally felt like I belonged here.

Johnson's Bookshop sat on a quiet street in Mayfair, tucked neatly between a florist and a tiny café.

It wasn't large.

It didn't need to be.

The old dark-green storefront looked as though it had belonged there forever.

Gold lettering stretched elegantly across the window.

JOHNSON'S BOOKSHOP

EST. 1958

The display window held stacks of novels, tiny pumpkins, dried flowers and handwritten recommendation cards tucked carefully between the books.

It felt...

Loved.

The little brass bell above the door chimed softly as I stepped inside.

The familiar scent wrapped around me instantly.

Books.

Fresh coffee.

Old wood.

Paper.

Home.

Rows of wooden bookshelves stretched across the shop, each carefully labelled.

Classics.

History.

Fantasy.

Poetry.

Travel.

Cookbooks.

Every shelf was neat without looking overly perfect.

Someone actually cared about this place.

Someone loved books.

"Good afternoon."

The warm voice belonged to an elderly gentleman emerging from behind one of the shelves.

He smiled before extending his hand.

"You must be Melek."

"I am."

He shook my hand firmly.

"Arthur Johnson."

"It's lovely to finally meet you, Mr Johnson."

"Oh, none of that."

He laughed kindly.

"It's Arthur."

"I don't think I could."

He smiled even wider.

"Then Mr Johnson it is."

His silver hair was neatly combed, his cardigan looked older than I probably was and tiny reading glasses rested low on his nose.

He reminded me of the kind grandfathers from children's books.

"I'm very grateful you agreed to hire me."

"I'm the grateful one."

He gestured around the shop.

"My knees aren't what they used to be."

I laughed.

"Mine still work perfectly."

"Excellent."

He clapped his hands together.

"I've hired the right person."

For the next hour he showed me everything.

How the till worked.

Where new deliveries arrived.

How to catalogue new books.

How customers could reserve titles.

Where every section of the shop was hidden.

"You'll learn quickly."

"I hope so."

"I know so."

He spoke with complete confidence.

"You already carry yourself like someone who belongs in a bookshop."

That made me smile.

Then...

He opened a little wooden gate leading into another room.

The children's section.

I stopped walking.

"Oh..."

The ceiling had been painted deep midnight blue.

Tiny golden stars shimmered above us.

Soft white clouds floated between them.

A crescent moon hung gently above one corner.

Suspended from the ceiling by nearly invisible wires...

A magnificent carved wooden dragon appeared to glide through the sky.

Its wings stretched proudly over the room.

I couldn't stop staring.

"It's beautiful."

"Isn't it?"

Mr Johnson looked up proudly.

"My late wife designed this room."

I slowly walked farther inside.

Low wooden bookcases overflowed with fairy tales, adventure stories and colourful picture books.

Oversized beanbags sat scattered across a soft rug.

Plush dragons.

Bears.

Foxes.

Rabbits.

Even a sleepy owl.

A tiny reading nook beneath a little wooden arch looked like something straight from a storybook.

Children would never want to leave.

Neither did I.

"This..."

I whispered.

"...might be my favourite room I've ever seen."

Mr Johnson chuckled.

"It usually has that effect."

The afternoon passed peacefully.

Customers wandered in and out.

Some searched for specific titles.

Others simply browsed.

I helped where I could, slowly finding my confidence.

Just as I was shelving a new stack of children's books...

The front door burst open.

"Mummy! Hurry!"

A little girl with light brown curls tugged enthusiastically on her mother's hand.

"But Gracie..."

Her mother laughed breathlessly.

"...slow down."

"I can't!"

"We're not going anywhere."

"Princess books!"

Her mother rested one hand on her small baby bump before smiling apologetically in my direction.

"I'm sorry."

"She gets a little excited."

I smiled back.

"No need to apologise."

I crouched until I was at the little girl's eye level.

"So..."

I whispered dramatically.

"...are you looking for ordinary princesses?"

Gracie frowned.

"No."

I gasped.

"The magical kind?"

Her eyes widened.

"Yes!"

I leaned in even closer.

"I think..."

I lowered my voice.

"...I know exactly where they're hiding."

She looked back at her mother.

"Can I?"

Her mum smiled.

"I think that would help me very much."

Gracie grabbed my hand without another word.

I couldn't help laughing.

Together we disappeared into the children's section.

She looked everywhere except the books.

At the dragon.

At the moon hanging from the ceiling.

At the giant teddy bear sitting on one of the beanbags.

"Does the dragon fly at night?"

She whispered.

I looked up thoughtfully.

"I've heard he only flies when there aren't any grown-ups watching."

Gracie's mouth fell open.

"Really?"

"I've never caught him..."

I smiled.

"...but I have heard strange wing flaps after closing time."

She giggled.

"I knew dragons were real."

"So did I."

We slowly wandered along the shelves.

Gracie stopped suddenly.

She looked up at me with curious blue eyes.

"What's your name?"

"My name is Melek."

She repeated it quietly.

"Melek."

Then smiled brightly.

"I like it."

"I'm Gracie."

"Nice to meet you, Gracie."

We smiled at each other.

She seemed perfectly satisfied with that before happily taking my hand again.

"Come on, Melek."

"We have to find the best princess."

Gracie picked up one princess book after another.

"No..."

She frowned.

"Too pink."

The next one.

"No."

Then another.

"The princess looks grumpy."

I laughed.

"I think you're quite a difficult customer."

"I'm choosing forever."

That answer surprised me.

Forever.

Children always had the most beautiful way of explaining things.

After several minutes I noticed a smaller hardback tucked behind a larger book.

The cover showed a little princess sitting beside a dragon instead of a prince.

I gently pulled it from the shelf.

"What about this one?"

Gracie carefully took it from my hands.

She turned the first page.

Then the second.

By the third...

A huge smile spread across her face.

"This one."

"You chose well."

She hugged the book tightly against her chest before suddenly throwing both little arms around my neck.

"Thank you."

I hugged her back just as gently.

"You're very welcome."

Without another word she raced back towards her mother.

"Mummy!"

"I found it!"

Her mother smiled the moment she saw her daughter's face.

"I can tell."

"It's about a princess and a dragon!"

"That sounds much more interesting than another prince."

"I know!"

I followed them back to the counter carrying the book.

Mr Johnson smiled knowingly as I scanned it through the till.

"I have a feeling..."

He said quietly.

"...you've already found your favourite customer."

I smiled.

"I think she found me."

Gracie proudly accepted the book before slipping her tiny hand into her mother's.

As they reached the door she suddenly turned around.

"We're coming back next week!"

"I'll be here."

She waved enthusiastically.

"Bye, Melek!"

"Goodbye, Gracie."

Her mother offered me a grateful smile.

"Thank you."

"It was my pleasure."

The little bell chimed once more as they disappeared outside.

I watched them walk away through the window.

Gracie skipped along the pavement, holding her new book tightly against her chest while her mother followed with a patient smile.

My heart felt strangely full.

Perhaps...

This city wasn't going to be as lonely as I'd feared.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly.

An elderly gentleman bought a detective novel.

A university student spent nearly twenty minutes deciding between two poetry collections.

A young couple wandered through the travel section, arguing playfully about where to spend their honeymoon.

Between customers I organised shelves, labelled new arrivals and learned where almost every section of the shop was.

Just before closing, Mr Johnson approached me while locking the till.

"So..."

He asked.

"First impressions?"

I looked around the little shop one last time.

"I think..."

I smiled.

"...I'm going to love working here."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

He picked up his coat.

"Same time tomorrow?"

"I wouldn't miss it."

"Excellent."

He switched off half the lights, leaving only the warm lamps glowing between the shelves.

The bookshop somehow looked even cosier in the evening.

As we stepped outside together, he locked the door before handing me a small brass key.

"A spare."

I blinked.

"You trust me already?"

He smiled kindly.

"Sometimes..."

He said.

"...you simply know."

I smiled.

"Thank you, Mr Johnson."

"My pleasure, Melek."

He gave me a small wave before turning towards the Underground station.

I watched him disappear around the corner, then adjusted the strap of my bag and started walking in the opposite direction.

Home.

The walk home felt different.

Lighter.

The city that had seemed so intimidating only a few hours earlier now felt strangely welcoming.

I stopped at the little grocery shop around the corner from my flat.

A small brass bell chimed as I stepped inside.

The elderly cashier greeted me with a warm smile.

"Good evening."

"Good evening."

I wandered slowly through the narrow aisles, grabbing everything I would need for the next few days.

Fresh tomatoes.

Eggs.

Green peppers.

Onions.

Parsley.

Bread flour.

Butter.

Milk.

Tea.

Shampoo.

Toothpaste.

A soft grey blanket caught my eye near the checkout.

Without thinking too much...

I bought that too.

It already felt like home.

When I finally climbed the stairs to my flat, both of my reusable shopping bags were almost too heavy to carry.

I unlocked the door.

Stepped inside.

And smiled.

The flat already smelled different.

Fresh.

Clean.

Mine.

I unpacked everything carefully before placing the vegetables on the kitchen counter.

My stomach growled.

Only then did I realise how hungry I really was.

I hadn't eaten a proper meal in two days.

Not since leaving Istanbul.

I rolled up my sleeves.

"Menemen."

I whispered to myself with a small smile.

Some people ate it for breakfast.

I preferred it for dinner.

Especially on days when I missed home.

I chopped the onions first.

Then the peppers.

The tomatoes.

The familiar rhythm settled my thoughts.

Butter melted quietly in the pan before the vegetables followed.

Soon the entire kitchen filled with a smell I hadn't realised I'd been longing for.

I cracked the eggs into the pan and gently stirred everything together.

Simple.

Comforting.

Home.

While the menemen finished cooking, I sliced fresh bread and placed it into the oven for just a few minutes.

Warm bread.

Hot tea.

Menemen.

It wasn't a complicated meal.

But it had always been my favourite.

Not because of the food itself.

Because of him.

My father.

...

I couldn't have been older than eight.

The entire house would already be asleep.

The staff.

My grandmother.

My mother.

Everyone.

Except me.

I always waited.

Curled beneath my blanket with a book.

Listening.

Eventually...

The front door downstairs would open.

A few quiet footsteps.

Then the familiar sounds of cupboards opening in the kitchen.

I would smile every single time.

Because I already knew.

"Baba's making menemen."

I'd quietly sneak downstairs in my pyjamas.

He always pretended to be surprised.

"Oh..."

He'd grin.

"I was wondering who'd stolen my little midnight helper."

"I smelled butter."

I'd answer proudly.

He'd laugh.

"You've got an excellent nose."

"I know."

"You certainly didn't get that from me."

He couldn't cook.

Not really.

Menemen was the only thing he knew how to make.

But somehow...

It was always perfect.

We'd sit together at the huge kitchen island long after midnight, sharing one pan between us while everyone else slept.

Sometimes we'd talk.

Sometimes we wouldn't.

We never needed to.

Those quiet midnight dinners became my favourite memories.

My father had always seemed larger than life.

Kind.

Patient.

Safe.

He was the one who taught me to ride a bicycle.

The one who read stories with different voices.

The one who told me that no dream was ever too big.

Until the day he stopped being that man.

Or perhaps...

Until the day I realised he never truly was.

I stared silently at the pan in front of me.

The smell hadn't changed.

Neither had the recipe.

Only the memories had.

Exactly one year ago...

I graduated from Boğaziçi University with a degree in English Language Education.

It had been the happiest day of my life.

Or so I'd believed.

My family organised a celebration that evening.

The garden behind our house had been decorated with thousands of tiny lights.

Live music.

Flowers.

Elegant tables.

Champagne.

I thought...

It was all for me.

For graduating.

For making them proud.

I wore my favourite dress.

My father hugged me in front of everyone.

"I'm proud of you."

he whispered.

I believed him.

I truly did.

Then...

He asked everyone for their attention.

The music stopped.

Every conversation faded.

He took my hand.

Smiling.

"My daughter has achieved something wonderful today."

Guests applauded.

I smiled through happy tears.

Then...

He continued.

"And tonight..."

"...our families celebrate another beautiful beginning."

I frowned.

Families?

Before I had time to ask what he meant...

A man I'd never seen before stepped beside me.

Tall.

Well dressed.

Perfectly groomed.

He smiled.

I didn't.

One of the guests stepped forward carrying an elegant silver tray.

Resting on a small white satin cushion were two simple gold rings.

They were tied together with a bright red satin ribbon.

My entire body froze.

No.

No...

This couldn't be happening.

I stared at the rings.

Every child in Turkey knew exactly what they meant.

The rings would be placed on our right hands.

The red ribbon would be cut.

And with one simple snip of a pair of scissors...

Our engagement would become official.

My future would no longer belong to me.

My father gently reached for my hand.

I pulled it away.

"What are you doing?"

I whispered.

He looked at me.

Still smiling.

"Our families have reached an agreement."

Agreement?

"What agreement?"

"Melek."

His voice lowered.

"Don't make a scene."

"I don't understand."

"You don't need to."

My heart pounded.

"I don't even know him."

"You will."

"I don't want to."

Silence.

The music still hadn't started again.

Hundreds of eyes watched us.

I looked around desperately.

My mother lowered her gaze.

My grandmother remained perfectly still.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

I looked back at my father.

"Baba..."

My voice broke.

"I won't marry someone I've never met."

The smile disappeared from his face.

For the first time in my life...

He looked at me like a stranger.

The slap echoed across the garden.

So loudly...

That even the birds scattered from the trees.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody came to me.

My cheek burned.

Tears filled my eyes.

"You will do exactly as you're told."

he said quietly.

Then he took my hand once more.

This time...

I didn't fight him.

Not because I'd accepted it.

Because something inside me had shattered.

The man who made midnight menemen.

The man who taught me to dream.

The man who encouraged me to study abroad.

The man who celebrated when I was accepted into Boğaziçi University...

He disappeared that night.

Standing in front of me...

Was someone else entirely.

I still saw him every day... but the father I loved had vanished forever.

***

I blinked away the memory before the tears could fall into my dinner.

The menemen had already begun cooling.

I carried my plate onto the little terrace and placed it on the small wooden table.

The evening air was crisp.

Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.

A dog barked in the distance.

The church bells chimed the hour.

Life carried on.

As if nothing had happened.

As if girls weren't forced into marriages every single day.

As if fathers didn't trade their daughters' futures for business, reputation or tradition.

I picked up a piece of warm bread and quietly scooped up the last of the menemen.

The first bite almost made me cry.

It tasted just like Baba's.

I closed my eyes.

For one brief moment...

I was eight years old again.

Sitting beside him in the middle of the night.

Laughing because he'd somehow managed to burn the bread while insisting he was an excellent cook.

The memory faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.

I opened my eyes.

The chair opposite me was empty.

I was alone.

Completely alone.

A month ago that thought would have terrified me.

Tonight...

It gave me peace.

Nobody knew where I was.

Nobody could tell me who to marry.

Nobody could decide what I would wear.

Where I would work.

What I was allowed to dream about.

For the first time in twenty-three years...

Every decision belonged to me.

I looked out across the quiet street.

A warm light spilled from one of the neighbouring houses.

Somewhere further away, I could hear the distant hum of London settling into the evening.

I wrapped both hands around my mug of tea.

"I choose."

I whispered into the silence.

"My life."

"My future."

"My happiness."

No one answered.

No one needed to.

The only approval I needed...

Was my own.

I stayed on the terrace until my tea grew cold.

Watching strangers walk home.

Listening to the city breathe.

Feeling the weight on my shoulders become just a little lighter.

Tomorrow would be another first.

Another step.

Another chance to build a life that belonged only to me.

I smiled softly.

For the first time in a very long time...

I was looking forward to tomorrow.