The old tea garden by the Bosphorus was nearly empty, the wind carrying the scent of salt and dying leaves. Selim watched Leyla’s hands; they were trembling as she held her glass. He knew what was coming before she even spoke. The silence between them had become a bridge that neither could cross.
Leyla sobbed, a single tear escaping. "How can I not be sad?"
As she walked away, Selim stayed seated, watching her figure disappear into the crowd. He had given his word. He would be the one to carry the sadness so that she didn't have to.