The light from the monitor fell not only across her face but also onto the wall of her office. Bahar scrolled the mouse wheel. A cup of cold tea sat on her desk. Staring at the screen, she read the electronic results of the first tests, jotting notes into her notebook. She rubbed her eyes wearily and took a sip of tea, wincing slightly. Setting the cup down, Bahar couldn’t place the strange taste in her drink — the thought flickered and vanished. She had already opened the browser and typed in a search. Bahar scrolled through publications again, making notes in pencil.

— Karyotype normal. Anatomy unremarkable, — she murmured quietly, trying to fit the puzzle together. — Hormones within range… no antibodies… — Bahar glanced at her notes.

She drew a line under the last entry and froze. Her gaze slowly slid down the column.

— But NK-cell activity is above normal… and T-regulators are failing, — her voice trembled. — The immune system attacks the embryo as if it were an enemy, — she straightened slightly in her chair, turning the pencil between her fingers. — It’s an immune error. The body refuses to accept the child, — she said aloud, still refusing to believe it.

Bahar returned to the browser and entered a new search. The screen flashed with the titles of medical papers.

— HLA incompatibility between spouses… KIR variants… — she skimmed through the articles. — LIT, Intralipid, IVIG… — she listed, biting her lip. — All debatable. All outside the standards.

Bahar took a sticky note, pressed it into her notebook, and wrote: “Hypothesis: Immune conflict.”

Having written it, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

— These methods aren’t approved here, — she said without opening them. — No protocol. No funding. Only risk.

She stood up and moved toward the window. The city beyond the glass seemed to breathe with her doubts.

— But if I’m right… if the immune system really is mistaken… — Bahar whispered, — then there’s a chance. Elif and Kerem could have a child.

She returned to the desk, placed both hands on it, and stared at the printouts, the test data, the notes in her book.

— It can only be framed as an experiment, a scientific study. Only under the ethics committee, with informed consent… — she began listing aloud, as if drawing up a plan to keep herself from hesitation. — Screening, sterility, protocol. Everything by the rules. And still — a step beyond the line.

Sitting down again, she quickly wrote in her notebook:

1. Consultation.

2. EC.

3. Informed consent.

4. Observation protocol.

Putting down the pen, she looked at the nearly finished action plan.

— They’ll call this madness, — she sighed. — But maybe that’s what faith really is — not in miracles, but in science.

The more she thought, the more resolute her eyes became, as if the mystery she’d been handed was finally yielding to her. Her gaze settled on the monitor. She was eager to discuss the case with the chief physician, then frowned — who was the chief now?

— Rengin, — Bahar jumped from her chair.

She realized that while the day still lasted, she could resolve the matter with her — still the acting administrator.

— It may not be a miracle, — Bahar whispered, tucking the printed documents into Elif’s file. — I’ll find the right strategy, and if this truly is a case of immune error, then we can act and— — she closed the folder and headed for the door — and I’ll definitely need help from the specialists...

***

She didn’t need any help packing her things. Outside the window, the sun was already leaning toward the horizon. A cup of steaming coffee stood on the table, its rising vapor blurring in the golden light. Evening was claiming its rights, painting the city in warm, burnished tones. Rengin stood by the window, gazing into the distance. It seemed she was trying to etch the view into her memory, but the weight of recent events pressed too heavily on her fragile shoulders, forcing her to hunch ever so slightly.

— May I? — Bahar peeked into the office.

— Of course, — Rengin straightened immediately, even managing a faint smile, her voice steady.

— How are you? — Bahar asked, stepping closer.

— The whole hospital knows already, doesn’t it? — Rengin replied. — News travels faster here than lab results get entered.

— You’re a good doctor, Rengin, — Bahar touched her hand gently. — No one has the right to question that.

— Being a good doctor and being the head of a hospital aren’t the same thing, — Rengin smiled faintly. — Sometimes one gets in the way of the other.

— Maybe so, — Bahar sat on the armrest of the sofa. — But without you, the hospital will lose its balance. Don’t think it’s over — it’s only a matter of time before you get your position back. You belong there. It’s yours.

Rengin simply shrugged and sat down on the windowsill across from her.

— Listen, — Bahar said, looking at her. — The weekend’s ahead. We all need to breathe out. Come over to our place.

Bahar’s invitation managed not only to bring a smile to Rengin’s face but even made her laugh.

— Don’t you have enough people in your house already? — she teased, still smiling. — Uraz, Siren, the grandkids, Nevra, Evren, Yusuf, the girls… and if Reha and Gülçiçek show up too? Oh right, you invited Çağla as well, didn’t you? — she reminded her. — What are you planning — a conference? Or should we just go ahead and throw a wedding?

— Ugh, — Bahar tensed immediately. — Don’t even joke about that, that’s the last thing I need right now, — she sighed. — I’m not asking you to move in, just to visit, — Bahar quickly changed the subject. — No lab coats, no hospital, no walls. The weather’s perfect — we’ll swim, cook something.

Rengin lowered her head; the smile faded, though Bahar caught a glimpse of the sadness and exhaustion that hadn’t left her eyes.

— What about Yusuf now? — Rengin leaned back against the glass, regretting the wedding joke. — How’s he doing? Have you talked to him?

— I don’t know, — Bahar looked out toward the distant buildings. — He’s confused, angry, hurt.

— And what now? — asked Rengin. — How did Evren take it?

Bahar shook her head.

— Don’t ask, — she whispered. — We all know where this leads — a DNA test. But it’s too early to talk about it; everyone’s too wound up, — Bahar sighed and handed Rengin a file. — Listen, I wanted your opinion. A couple, 35 and 38 years old, five miscarriages in a row, and on the surface, everything looks normal.

Rengin took the file and opened it.

— Have you already got the first test results? — she asked, scanning the data.

— Only preliminary. NK-cell activity is elevated, regulatory T-cells below normal. HLA match with the husband is suspiciously low. If confirmed, it’s an immune conflict, — Bahar sighed.

Rengin frowned and lifted her head.

— That means the recurrent miscarriages are a result of immune rejection, — she said seriously. — Do you realize what you’re getting into if the diagnosis is confirmed?

— Yes. They’ll need immunotherapy, — Bahar nodded. — Possibly Intralipid or IVIG, — she paused before continuing. — If that’s not enough, we might have to consider lymphocyte immunotherapy.

Rengin frowned and stood up. She began pacing across the office, deep in thought.

— That’s a different story, — she said, standing in the middle of the room with the file open in her hands. — This will require approval from the ethics committee. Protocol, informed consent, infection screening for the husband, separate monitoring plan. Without that, no procedure can go forward. And even then, it would have to be classified strictly as an experiment. I’m not sure the committee will agree.

— I know, — Bahar stood and approached her. — But if the diagnosis is confirmed, that couple has no other option. We can watch, we can sympathize — but we won’t be able to help.

— Are you sure you’re ready for all this? — Rengin asked. — You’ll have to make the documentation flawless, and besides the paperwork, — she closed the file, — you’ll need a co-investigator. One doctor can’t conduct experimental therapy alone.

— Yes, — Bahar nodded. — I understand. I’ll need a good specialist.

— These methods haven’t been used in Turkey for thirty years — or anywhere in the world, really, — Rengin mused. — Yes, there were studies forty years ago and— — she stopped mid-sentence, then suddenly lit up. — Wait, listen, — she put the file on the desk. — There were studies in the 1980s — I saw something about it not long ago. I’m sure of it!

Standing, Rengin opened her browser and started flipping through tabs.

— I definitely saw something — when I was planning Professor Reha’s lectures and reviewing old experimental protocols, — she looked at Bahar. — Yes, if this works, you already have a team. Him and his students. You’ll just need specialists in this field, but those you’ll have to find abroad. Exactly, — she turned the laptop toward Bahar. — Look — here.

Bahar came closer, put on her glasses, and read the title: “When the Body Rejects Its Own Child.” She froze for a moment.

— No, — she whispered. — We won’t reject anyone ever again.

— Author: Meryem Özkan, published in 1980, — Rengin continued. — Yes, that’s history now. No one knows who uploaded it — and maybe it doesn’t matter, — she added absently. — The fact is, Meryem Özkan lived in Turkey, in Istanbul, and she conducted those experiments.

— She’s alive? How old is she? Where is she now? — Bahar stared intently at the screen. — Why didn’t this article show up when I searched earlier in my office? — she said in surprise. — That’s not the point, Rengin. The point is, those children were born — and now their children have children. That means the method worked, even if it was abandoned.

They stood face to face, both leaning over the table, their eyes locked.

— Tell me, — Bahar broke the silence, — you’re not helping me now just because you’ve been removed, or to cause trouble for the new chief, are you?

Rengin gave a faint, crooked smile, though her eyes stayed sad.

— You know, — she straightened up, — I’ve always argued with all of you whenever you used your unconventional methods. But the paradox was that, deep down, I was always on your side. And somehow, you always succeeded. I was genuinely happy for you, even when I pretended to scold or criticize.

Bahar leaned back and tilted her head toward the ceiling.

— Just not today, — she whispered.

Rengin immediately walked around the desk and embraced her.

— You did everything you could. Don’t blame yourself, — she said softly. — You already have a new case — it’s interesting, unusual — and you’ll handle it.

— You think so? — Bahar’s voice cracked with emotion.

— Life goes on, Bahar. It didn’t work out with Ayşe, but that wasn’t your fault. It will work out with— — she stopped, looking at Bahar.

— Elif, — Bahar breathed.

— It will work out with Elif, — Rengin released her and picked up her phone.

— Who are you calling? — Bahar asked warily.

— Our dear Professor Reha, — Rengin smiled. — First, I’ll check how he’s doing at home, and second, I’ll ask what he knows about Meryem Özkan. He must’ve heard something — maybe even knew her personally, he was just starting out back then. I have a feeling, — she glanced at Bahar, — your method might actually help your patient.

Bahar sighed loudly. Even now, with Rengin officially dismissed, she somehow managed to keep working, businesslike and composed, despite it being her last day as chief physician.

— Professor Reha, I hope I’m not interrupting your meditation and cocktail hour in the massage chair? — she asked with a grin, winking at Bahar.

Bahar rolled her eyes and waved her hands in mock exasperation.

— More like pulling me away from a cup of aspirin, — Reha laughed. — I’ve been diagnosed with chronic administration. — He looked toward Gülçiçek, who appeared in the doorway of the living room. — Is something wrong, Rengin? — he asked despite his wife’s presence.

Gülçiçek put her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

— I just wanted to know how you’re feeling after your beach trip, — Rengin nudged Bahar lightly with her elbow.

Bahar raised her hands in surrender but smiled, her expression softening.

— Ah, that’s what you mean, — Reha relaxed noticeably. — I might complain that the sand was too hot, but I’m alive and almost healthy. I even promise not to argue with the waves again.

Gülçiçek snorted, shaking her head, clearly listening in and not planning to leave.

Back in Rengin’s office, Bahar dropped onto the couch, keeping her eyes on her. Rengin followed, sitting beside her with the phone still in hand, speaking on speakerphone.

— Good to hear, — she said, struggling not to laugh. — Then here’s my second question. A serious one. — She paused briefly, then continued. — Do you know anything about Dr. Meryem Özkan?

Reha’s expression changed instantly. He even staggered slightly, standing by the window. Gülçiçek frowned and moved closer to him, searching his face with concern.

— Professor? — Rengin prompted gently.

— Why are you asking? — Reha’s voice turned grave. He adjusted his collar as if trying to loosen it.

Gülçiçek touched his hand. For the first time, he looked away, avoiding her eyes.

— Because Bahar is studying immune conflicts in infertility, — Rengin explained. — And we came across an old paper from the 1980s. The author was Meryem Özkan. — She glanced at Bahar. — You were already working back then, weren’t you, Professor?

Reha coughed, clearing his throat. They could hear his heavy breath through the speaker, as if he were gathering the courage to answer.

— Reha, — Gülçiçek said softly, touching his arm.

— Yes… It was a very loud case, — he finally said. — The patient died. It turned into a huge scandal. She had to leave the country immediately. — His gaze froze, fixed on a single point. — She never came back.

Rengin raised her brows in surprise. Bahar frowned.

— Where is she now? — Rengin asked.

— She lives in America, — Reha answered too quickly, earning a puzzled look from Gülçiçek.

Now she stared at him, arms slightly spread, not understanding his reaction — his pale, shaken face. She didn’t like it one bit.

— So she’s alive, — Bahar murmured barely audibly.

— Then we can contact her, — Rengin nodded.

— Rengin, — Reha unbuttoned the top of his shirt, trying to breathe evenly, though his heartbeat was pounding, his pulse racing — thankfully, Gülçiçek couldn’t hear it. — Are you seriously planning to recreate her protocols? — he asked. — Those experiments weren’t just forgotten — they were erased.

— We’ll proceed carefully. And besides, you’ll be involved too — if the ethics committee approves, — Rengin informed him.

— So İsmail will sign off on it? — there was a note of disbelief in Reha’s voice.

Now both Rengin and Bahar exchanged bewildered looks. The professor’s question clearly unsettled them.

— Are you saying Mr. İsmail knows Meryem Özkan? — Rengin asked carefully, squeezing Bahar’s hand.

Reha didn’t seem to hear her.

— And she… she’s coming here? — he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

— We don’t know yet, — Rengin shook her head, just as confused.

Reha muttered something incoherent and ended the call.

— You’re pale as a ghost, — Gülçiçek snapped. — And that was just a phone call, Reha. And tell me this, — she looked straight into his eyes, — who is that woman?

— Just an old story, — Reha tried to brush it off, but his uneven breathing gave him away. — One of those that don’t need a sequel.

Gülçiçek stepped closer, almost towering over him, her eyes locked on his.

— You sound like a man trying to lie, — she said quietly.

This time, Reha said nothing at all.

— Don’t push yourself, Reha, — Gülçiçek said quietly. — I’d rather those old stories stayed buried.

Reha took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He turned toward the window and said nothing. Gülçiçek almost reached out to touch him but stopped halfway. She stood beside him for a moment, then left, leaving him alone in the living room.

— He definitely knows more than he’s saying, — Rengin murmured, frowning slightly as she turned her head, sniffing the air. — What’s that smell? — she asked.

Bahar blinked.

— Nothing, — she said, walking over to the table. She poured herself some water from the carafe and took a sip. — I don’t understand, — she set the glass down but didn’t finish her thought; a metallic taste spread in her mouth. — Surely Reha wasn’t the only one who knew Meryem Özkan.

Rengin had already moved to the window and opened it wide. She inhaled deeply.

— You see, Meryem Özkan is already history, — she said. — The fact that Professor Reha and the students will take part is a big advantage, but you have to remember, the committee is extremely cautious, especially after the transplant cycle incident. They won’t sign anything without solid backing.

— I’ll prepare everything, — Bahar said, stepping beside her. — Publications, statistics, reviews — everything that can give us even the slightest foundation.

— Make sure to include a clause about ethical oversight, — Rengin added. — Every intervention must be documented.

Bahar opened her notebook and jotted down notes.

— Bahar, — Rengin kept her gaze on the window, — you understand that starting tomorrow, I won’t be able to help anymore, — her voice had grown softer.

— Rengin, — Bahar hugged her tightly, — I understand.

— Sert Kaya won’t approve a single non-standard protocol. Anything outside the line — he’ll shut it down, — Rengin sighed.

— Then I have to finish everything today, — Bahar said firmly.

— Today — that’s your limit. Submit the application, draft the preliminary report, and send the request to the committee, — Rengin instructed, trying to keep her tone even, though there was bitterness beneath it. — Even if they don’t sign today, the case will be registered. — She looked at Bahar. — He won’t be able to erase it.

— All right, — Bahar said, still holding her. — You know, you’re the best kind of compass.

— Don’t get sentimental, — Rengin said softly. — I’m still a doctor. I’ll just keep treating patients — without the title this time.

— Sometimes being quiet means being real, — Bahar smiled.

— If you manage to file the documents before evening, I’ll sign them, — Rengin looked at her warmly. — It’ll be my last order as chief physician. But remember, — she found Bahar’s hand and squeezed her fingers, — if things go wrong, there’ll be no one left to protect you.

— I know, — Bahar nodded. — But if things go right, that couple will have a child. And that’s worth any signature. — She met her eyes. — And you know what? You’ll always be the chief physician.

This time, Rengin couldn’t hide it — tears glimmered in her eyes. They both fell silent, looking at each other. Then, almost in unison, they turned toward the window, still holding hands… until Bahar frowned.

— Wait, — she leaned closer to the glass. — Isn’t that Cem out there?

Rengin narrowed her eyes, focusing. Near the bench, indeed, stood Cem. And just then, Parla walked up to him. The two women exchanged glances.

— Is that what I think it is? — Rengin whispered.

— Looks like it, — Bahar replied.

— Then it seems we’ve got a new headache on the way, — Rengin said, already heading for the door.

Bahar grabbed Elif’s file and hurried after her…

***

She wasn’t in a hurry as she walked toward him. Parla stopped beside Cem, who was leaning against the bench. He was holding a lighter, flicking it open and shut. Click — flame. Click — darkness.

— Cem, — she called softly.

— Came to watch me fall? — he didn’t even turn around.

— No, — she shook her head. — I came because I’m sorry. And because I want to be here for you.

— Sorry? — he gave a bitter smile. — Don’t waste your pity on me, Parla. Everyone’s already done that — felt sorry, then left.

— You did this yourself, — she said evenly. — No one made those choices for you.

— Of course! — he spun around sharply. — Now everyone’s a genius! Everyone knows how I should’ve lived, what I should’ve done! — his voice burned with anger.

— I’m not against you, Cem, — Parla didn’t flinch; she stepped closer. — I’m here so you don’t have to be alone.

— Right, — he laughed harshly, the sound too rough to be genuine. — You’ve come to save me. The angel who still thinks things can be fixed.

— I’m no angel, — her voice carried a tired edge for the first time, but she didn’t back down. — And you’re not a little boy anymore, Cem. It’s time to stop acting like the world owes you something.

Cem flinched. He slipped the lighter into his pocket.

— It’s just… everything’s falling apart too fast, — he whispered, all the defiance draining from his voice.

— Parla! — Rengin’s voice cut through the silence, making her step back. Rengin came up and took her by the hand. — Come on.

Parla wanted to protest, but Rengin didn’t give her the chance; she simply led her away. Bahar stopped beside Cem, and their eyes met. They held each other’s gaze. He opened his mouth to say something—

— You all right? — she asked first.

Evren came running up, slightly out of breath.

— Cem, — he said, stepping in front of Bahar, shielding her, — let’s go.

— Evren? — Bahar asked quietly.

— Later, — he answered curtly. — We’ll talk later, Bahar.

Evren’s fingers tightened around Cem’s arm as he steered him toward the hospital, like leading someone to execution. Cem said nothing. Neither did Evren. Bahar followed them, already realizing that whatever lay ahead with Cem… it wouldn’t be simple.

***

He knew explaining this to his daughter wouldn’t be easy—but staying silent wasn’t in his nature. Serhat stepped into the hospital room and closed the door behind him. When he looked at his daughter, his breath caught. He reached for the wall, steadying himself. No matter how many times he had seen this image—IV drips, pale skin—it still terrified him. All those years, the same scene, but now it was different. Esra was pregnant. A girl. His granddaughter. His daughter’s daughter. Just a few more weeks, and he might have… He stopped himself. Those few weeks might be all she had left.

He inhaled sharply, straightened his shoulders, and walked to her bed. He even managed half a smile, though his eyes betrayed him.

— Dad? — Esra lifted herself on the pillows.

Serhat rushed to her side, helping her up, adjusting the blanket, checking the IV line. He lowered his head, unable to hide the pain that came over him every time he saw the needle in her vein. He’d seen this picture hundreds of times, but today it felt different—more fragile, more final.

— I’m here, — his voice trembled. He sat on the edge of the bed, ready to rest his head against her chest, to make sure once again that her heart was still beating—unevenly, weakly, but beating. — Everything’s fine, — he whispered, his forehead touching her hand.

— You’re acting strange today, — Esra’s fingers tangled gently in his hair. — Did something happen?

He flinched almost imperceptibly but didn’t raise his head. His senses were heightened to the point where he could hear every drop from the IV.

— Esra… I have to tell you something, — he whispered.

— Dad, you’re scaring me, — Esra’s voice grew tense.

— Don’t be afraid, — Serhat straightened up and looked into her eyes. — The truth always comes at the worst time.

— The truth? — Esra frowned. — What truth? Since when does truth come and go?

Looking at her, Serhat found her hand and held it tightly.

— It’s possible… that you have a brother, — he admitted.

— What? — It took her a moment to process the words.

— It was before your mother, — Serhat lowered his gaze. — You’re almost the same age, less than a year apart, — he added quietly. — Evren and I… we had a mutual friend. It happened that we were both with her, and she had a child. But we only found out recently. Yes, — he forced himself to look his daughter in the eyes, — that doesn’t excuse either of us. We knew she was pregnant, but neither of us knew who the father was.

— Dad? — Esra shook her head, refusing to believe what she heard.

— Maybe even she didn’t know, — he went on softly. — She told me the father was Evren, and told him it was me. — He closed his eyes and exhaled, as if saying it out loud brought relief—but it didn’t.

Esra pressed her hand to her mouth, staring at him, shaking her head.

— You judge me, don’t you? — Serhat asked quietly, nodding to himself. — You’re right to.

— No, — Esra whispered. — She said that because neither you nor Professor Evren were ready to take responsibility for that child. — A faint, sad smile touched her lips as her hand drifted to her belly. — She just let you both go, Dad. And it was easier for you that way, wasn’t it? That’s the bitter truth — sometimes women make that choice: they choose the child, and let the men walk away.

Serhat looked at her, trying to understand the weight of her words — and suddenly realized how grown-up his daughter had become.

— I thought it was all in the past, — he swallowed hard. — That it would never come back. But now… — He stopped, unable to go on.

— Who is he? — Esra asked simply. — And why now?

— Yusuf. You’ve probably seen him. He works here too — he’s an assistant, — Serhat stood and moved away from the bed. — He doesn’t know who his father is. No one does. His mother’s gone now. I feel so ashamed, — he said, stopping by the window, pressing his hands to his head. — Ashamed before you, before him… Not because I was young back then, but because now it hurts. It hurts him. It hurts you. — He ran a hand down his face.

— No, Dad… — her eyes glistened with tears. — It hurts you. I can see that.

— And I’m afraid, — he turned toward her. — Afraid that if it turns out he’s really your brother, my son… it might crush your will to fight. — A tear rolled down his cheek, and he wiped it away quickly. — I’m terrified of that.

— Dad, I won’t stop fighting, — Esra whispered. — I’m going to have a daughter, and I want to live. I really do. If I have a brother, it will make me happy — for me, for my daughter. And you… — she reached out her hand, and Serhat took it, holding her fingers tightly. — You’ll be a good father to him. You’re the best father. He just doesn’t know it yet. Yes, you’re afraid of losing me — but don’t be afraid to gain a son. He’s not to blame for being born. None of this is his fault. Think of it as a gift, and everything will fall into place.

Serhat leaned down, and his lips brushed her forehead. She closed her eyes. He was still holding her hand, feeling her pulse weaken under his fingers, then steady again. He had grown so used to being by her side, listening to her breathing, guarding her sleep… and he prayed he would have many more days to see his daughter’s smile.

***

Rengin sent her daughter back to her office and headed toward the conference room. Usually, this space was filled with discussion — clinical cases, paperwork, debates over scientific articles — but today even the air felt heavier, thicker, charged with a strange foreboding.

She entered, closed the door behind her. A folder was clutched in her hands. Rengin walked to the head of the long table and sat beside Sert Kaya. Her posture was straight, but her shoulders were tense. A wary glint flickered in her eyes.

Evren sat to the left with Bahar at the side table. Across from them, on the opposite side of the presidium, sat the hospital’s legal counsel and Ahu, acting as the commission’s secretary. In the middle of the room, directly before the presidium, stood a single chair — the one reserved for Cem. He sat there with his arms crossed, staring straight into the eyes of Sert Kaya, a man in a flawlessly pressed suit.

Rengin glanced at Ahu, and Ahu rose.

— The internal committee meeting concerning the data breach in the operating wing is now in session, — she announced, switching on the voice recorder.

Rengin gave her an encouraging nod, and Ahu sat back down.

— The purpose of this committee, — Rengin began, opening the folder, — is to establish the nature of the incident, determine the degree of responsibility, and develop measures to prevent future occurrences. — Her tone was firm, precise, without a single unnecessary word. — The board has decided to conduct an internal investigation in order to preserve the hospital’s reputation and ensure the protection of patient data.

— A fine speech, Professor, — Sert interrupted, unable to resist. He turned slightly toward her, nodding as if out of courtesy. — Even though the police have already taken an interest in this case, — he leaned back in his chair, his voice tightening with deliberate emphasis, — you somehow managed to convince the board that internal oversight will handle things better than state authorities? — He smirked. — That’s quite a talent.

— We’re acting according to protocol, — Rengin didn’t even raise an eyebrow. — The data can only be transferred to the police upon an official request. Until then, we are obliged to complete our own investigation.

— Protocol, — Sert repeated, spinning his pen between his fingers. His gaze shifted to Evren. — You know very well, Professor Yalkın, that sometimes protocol protects not only the patients but also reputations.

Bahar turned to look at Evren.

— Protocol isn’t a shield, — Evren said after a pause. — It’s a line of responsibility. No one hides behind it.

— Excellent, — Sert jotted something down in his notebook. — Then you’ll have to learn not just to hide, but to answer for your actions.

The line, thrown so casually, froze the meeting in silence. Everyone exchanged glances, trying to catch the hidden meaning. Evren clenched his jaw — he understood perfectly. Sert waved his hand, and the lawyer stood.

— According to the security department’s report, — the lawyer began, reading from the printed page, — unauthorized access was carried out using the personal device of Mr. Cem Keskin. — His tone was monotonous, professional. — Evidence of tampering was found in the server storage, and a partial upload of surgery footage and corridor surveillance video was detected.

Rengin looked directly at Cem.

— Confirm that you accessed the internal system, — she said.

— I… yes, — he stammered. — I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, — Cem spoke quickly, nervously.

— You hacked a secure network, — Rengin’s voice remained calm, even, devoid of emotion.

— I wanted to… — he trailed off.

— To prove something, — Sert finished for him, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. — We have two options. — He pulled the folder closer to himself. — The first — formal. We hand everything over to the police, and you’ll spend the next few months perfecting your skills… in a different kind of institution. — He paused, glancing at Bahar — long, deliberate — before continuing. — The second — an internal sanction. We save the hospital’s face, and you get a chance to redeem yourself. — Now his gaze locked on Cem. — Work at the hospital. No access to equipment, under administrative supervision. — Sert turned toward Evren.

Evren swallowed hard, rolling his shoulders as if trying to ease an invisible noose tightening around his neck.

— Where exactly would Cem be working? — Bahar asked cautiously.

— Maintenance department, — Sert said without a trace of irony. — Archives, cleaning, supply storage. Let him start from the bottom and learn the meaning of rules before he breaks them again.

— That’s a public humiliation, — Evren stood abruptly. Bahar reached for his arm, trying to make him sit, but he shook his head.

— It’s discipline, Professor, — Sert cut him off sharply, a slight nod forcing him back down. — You, of all people, should understand — sometimes a wound needs to be cauterized before it can heal. — Sert looked at Cem. — Or would you prefer a criminal charge?

Cem went pale, shaking his head. His hands unclenched only to grip the sides of his chair.

— No, — he murmured. — No, I agree. I’ll do it.

For the first time, he didn’t argue — and Evren looked at his brother with a mix of surprise and disbelief.

— Prepare the protocol, — Sert ordered the lawyer. — Temporary assignment to auxiliary duties for a term of three months. — He paused, then added, — Under Professor Yalkın’s supervision.

— You’re assigning me to oversee him? — Evren’s voice nearly broke, and Bahar’s hand pressed down on his knee, gently restraining him.

— Who else? — Sert almost smiled but restrained himself. — You already bear moral responsibility for him. — He spoke as if explaining something self-evident. — In family matters, as in medicine, you can’t ignore the consequences, Professor. — He turned to Rengin. — The commission’s decision stands as a temporary measure until official notice from law enforcement.

Rengin sighed and shook her head slightly.

— You’re keeping the option to forward the case to the police, — she noted calmly. — What will you do if that official request does arrive? — she asked, meeting his gaze directly.

He smiled — almost pleasantly, almost friendly.

— I’m not against it, Professor. I just want to make sure that when they come, everything is already in order, — Sert leaned slightly toward her. — The protocol, the resignation, the signature — everything spotless, like an operating room.

— My signature will be exactly where it’s supposed to be, — Rengin replied evenly. — No sooner, no later.

She turned to Ahu.

— The committee’s decision is final.

Ahu immediately stood.

— The session is adjourned, — she announced, her words striking the air like a judge’s gavel.

Sert glanced at Cem.

— You can thank those who spoke up for you. — Then he turned back to Rengin. — You managed to turn things around, Professor. — His tone carried a hint of mockery beneath the praise. — It seemed there was nothing left to be done, and yet you did it. — He paused. — Today you really did save the hospital. — His voice dropped slightly. — Though sometimes, saving one life is only a delay for another.

He snapped his folder shut and left the room without another glance at anyone.

— He helped me, didn’t he? — Cem broke the silence first.

Bahar closed her eyes. Rengin kept her gaze fixed on the closed door. Evren’s fists clenched.

— No, Cem, — Evren said quietly. — He just left you somewhere he can keep an eye on you.

Bahar opened her eyes and looked at Evren. She wanted to add that Sert Kaya wouldn’t just be watching Cem — he’d be watching all of them.

— So what was the point of your glowing recommendations then? — Cem shot up from his chair. — Why go to all that trouble if they were useless?

— Enough! — Evren barked, slamming his hand on the table. — Be grateful to the people who risked their positions for you!

— Who? — Cem stepped closer to him. — Who? You? What did you do? — His hands curled into fists. — Now they’re making me work here as what?

Evren circled the table and faced him.

— You’ll work here in any position they give you! — He gripped Cem’s arm tightly. — Either that, or you’ll end up in prison!

— I didn’t do anything wrong! — Cem shouted, his defiance returning now that the immediate threat had passed.

— Work is always an opportunity, Cem, — Evren tightened his hold. — If my recommendations didn’t help now, they’ll help later.

— Under supervision? — Cem’s voice cracked. He couldn’t accept it.

— Enough! — Evren’s voice rose again.

— Evren, — Bahar hurried to him.

— You’re all against me! — Cem’s voice broke into a shout as he shoved his brother away. — Every one of you! — His eyes darted between Bahar, Evren, and Rengin.

Ahu and the lawyer stood off to the side, silent.

— Cem, — Rengin called to him calmly but firmly. — That’s enough. You’ll go with the lawyer now and sign the documents so I can authorize them.

Cem looked ready to scoff, to argue, but he knew it was pointless. He couldn’t fight it. He still couldn’t accept where he’d ended up — blaming everyone except himself.

— Let’s go, Cem, — Ahu said softly, stepping forward. — I’ll take you.

— Go, — Evren snapped, too sharply.

Standing behind him, Bahar placed a hand on his back, trying to steady him, to cool the anger she could feel burning through him. She knew how much effort it took for him to hold himself together.

Ahu and the lawyer escorted Cem out of the room.

— It’s only getting worse, — Evren said, watching him go.

— Sert Kaya’s just pushing him closer to the edge, — Bahar murmured.

Rengin sighed and quietly left the room. Bahar reached for a small bottle on the table, took a sip, and grimaced.

— What a strange taste, — she said, setting it down.

— What? — Evren reacted instantly, grabbing the bottle and taking a drink himself. — It’s just water, — he said, then his expression changed. — Bahar, — his voice trembled, — are you taking your meds? Are you all right? Your tests? What did it taste like — metal? — He paled.

— Evren, — Bahar touched his cheek gently. — I’m fine. Don’t worry. — She took the bottle back from his hands and drank again in front of him. — See? It’s just water. Everything’s fine. — She swallowed, forcing herself not to show how wrong that taste felt in her mouth.

Evren studied her face carefully.

— It was nothing, — she said softly, slipping her arm through his. — Come on. — She leaned her head lightly against his shoulder, hiding the faint wince. The metallic taste still lingered on her tongue — thin, cold, like a premonition too faint to name…

***

She couldn’t quite define what Parla really felt for Cem.

Rengin entered her office and stopped short. Parla quickly slipped her phone into her pocket and stood up from the couch.

— Him again? — Rengin asked quietly, unable to grasp how Cem could possibly be messaging at a time like this.

— Mom, we’re just texting, — Parla said, stepping closer.

— Just? — Rengin raised an eyebrow. — With someone who’s about to face trial?

— But there won’t be a trial, right? — Parla looked at her intently. — It ended with the internal inquiry. Or didn’t it?

Rengin exhaled heavily and sat down on the couch. So Cem had already managed to tell Parla everything.

— Cem’s not a monster, Mom, — Parla sat beside her. — He just made a mistake. I came to support him, not to judge him. — She shrugged.

— Support him, — Rengin repeated with a faint, tired smile. — Do you know how many women have said that before letting themselves get dragged into someone else’s mistakes? — she said, wrapping an arm around her daughter’s shoulders.

— Mom, I’m not a child, — Parla replied calmly. — I know the difference between pity and feeling. There’s nothing between us. — Her voice was steady, her face open, almost serene, as if there were no emotion to hide.

— And are you sure he knows the difference? — Rengin asked quietly, still unsure what exactly her daughter felt.

— I’m not a little girl, Mom, — Parla leaned against her. — Sometimes I think I never really was one, — she added softly, lowering her head. — I just don’t remember being small.

Rengin gently brushed her daughter’s hair back and adjusted her collar.

— Exactly, — she said more tenderly. — You’re not a child. Which means you have a choice — not to go where you can be hurt.

— I only came to talk, — Parla said. — It’s a hard day for him.

— Hard? — Rengin’s tone carried a weary edge. — Hard is when you lose a patient, when you lie awake at night hearing someone’s cries. Not when you ruin everything yourself.

Parla closed her eyes. They so rarely talked like this — moments like this could be counted on one hand.

— I just don’t want you to get caught in a story where someone plays on your compassion, — Rengin whispered.

— Mom, I’m not you, — Parla said softly. — Cem isn’t pretending. He just doesn’t know how to be different. I’m not excusing him — I just understand him. And that’s not the same thing.

— Sometimes understanding is more dangerous than love, — Rengin said quietly.

— Or maybe it’s what saves us, — Parla smiled faintly. — You’re the one who taught me that.

— Did I really? — Rengin asked, surprised.

— I learned from you not to lose myself, — Parla said, and her words made Rengin lower her gaze. — I haven’t lost myself. I just don’t walk past those who are drowning.

— And if he drags you under with him? — Rengin’s voice trembled with helpless worry.

— Then you’ll pull me out, — Parla said simply, looking straight at her. — Only you could. You’re the strongest person I know, Mom.

Rengin’s eyes reddened; she bit her lip.

— Mom, you’re just worried, — Parla whispered.

— I’m always worried, — Rengin sighed. — It’s what I do. Worry. Control everything.

Before Parla could answer, there was a knock on the door, and Serhat appeared in the doorway.

— Professor Rengin, may I? — he asked.

— Professor Serhat, — Rengin tensed at once.

She stood quickly, straightened her coat. Parla watched her closely.

— I’m sorry for dropping in unannounced, — his voice was soft, almost soothing. — I needed to clarify a few things about the protocols.

— Of course, — Rengin said quickly. — We were just finishing up… — She turned to Parla. — This is my daughter, Parla, — she introduced. — Professor Serhat Özer.

Parla stood. She had seen the man before, during Reha’s operation, but they’d never met formally.

— A pleasure, — Serhat was the first to extend his hand.

Parla shook it firmly.

— Likewise, Professor, — she said with a small smile, studying him curiously. — You’re Mom’s colleague.

— In a way, — he smiled. — Sometimes we even argue. — His tone softened slightly.

— Then you must be brave, — Parla said calmly, not breaking eye contact.

— Professor Serhat came here for work, Parla, — Rengin coughed lightly, trying to steer the moment back to business.

— Of course, — Parla replied, still smiling faintly. — Just checking if he’s a decent human being.

— I’d like to think so, — Serhat chuckled after a brief pause, — though if you ask my colleagues, they might disagree.

— Parla, enough, — Rengin said, blushing slightly but unable to hide her smile.

— All right, — Parla said, heading to the door. At the threshold, she turned, her gaze lingering on both of them. — You know, I like you like this. Alive.

Rengin froze, unsure how to respond.

— See you, Professor, — Parla said, nodding to Serhat before leaving.

When the door closed, silence settled over the room. Rengin still stared at the door.

— You have a remarkable daughter, — Serhat said with a smile. — I’m sure we’ll get along.

— Yes, — Rengin exhaled, looking off to the side. — Sometimes a little too perceptive.

— She’s a clever girl, — he said warmly, clearly impressed.

— Sometimes too much so, — Rengin murmured. — Too grown for her age.

— It’s contagious, — he replied, stepping closer. — Especially when you’re around. Is it hard, being a mother? — His hands brushed her shoulders, gently turning her to face him.

— Sometimes harder than being a doctor, — she said, her palms pressing lightly against his chest. — There are no protocols for this.

— You’re right, — he said softly. — Sometimes we have to act without them. — He leaned in, and his lips met hers.

Rengin clutched at his coat, answering his kiss — still thinking that maybe she should push him away… but instead she only drew closer, letting him hold her, letting him kiss her…

***

He wanted so badly to hold her, to kiss her. Evren didn’t understand his own sudden impulse and barely managed to restrain himself. He let her walk a few steps ahead. The hospital lobby was bathed in soft evening light. A cool breeze drifted in through the tall glass windows. Bahar stopped by one of them, watching the people outside. Evren approached quietly, but she sensed him before he spoke.

— You’re awfully quiet, — he said softly. — I can tell you’re worried.

— And I can tell you’re anxious, — she turned toward him.

— Maybe because I’m afraid, — Evren whispered, tension flickering in his voice.

His fingers brushed her shoulder — cautious, tentative, as if afraid she might shatter from the touch.

— Afraid? — Bahar repeated. — You’ve always said fear is a luxury doctors can’t afford.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly.

— Fear for patients, yes. — His hand slid gently down her back and stopped at her waist. — But not for you. That’s… something else, — he admitted, his gaze drifting to her lips.

Bahar sighed. Her hand came to rest on his shoulder, absently smoothing a crease that wasn’t there.

— I’ll show you the lab results, the ultrasound, — she said quietly, as if that could calm him. — Everything really is within the normal range.

Evren nodded, and his hand lowered carefully to her abdomen, touching her almost weightlessly, barely there.

— Evren, we’re in the lobby… — Bahar flinched, glancing around.

— I don’t care, — he didn’t move his hand. — I’m drawn to you… — His voice was hushed, trembling, as though he feared not that someone might hear his words but the rawness of what they meant. — I can’t explain it. It’s this need to protect you, to keep you safe. — He exhaled, pressing his hand a little closer without force. — I’m terrified it’ll be too late. I don’t want to sign a report that says “termination of pregnancy for medical reasons.” We wouldn’t survive it.

Bahar froze. His words hit her hard, unexpected, cutting through her composure.

— Evren… — she tried to speak evenly, but her voice faltered.

— I know, — he continued, — everything’s possible now. And I’m not your husband; my consent wouldn’t even be needed. You could have the abortion, and I might never find out.

— Stop it, — she said sharply, lowering her hand over his. — I told you already — I won’t do it!

He went silent. For a moment, she looked genuinely frightened, and that made her seem even more fragile. He so rarely saw her allow herself to be that — vulnerable.

— I’m sorry, — he whispered. — I just… can’t bear the thought of losing you.

— I told you, I’ll show you the results, — she repeated, softer this time, no longer angry. — I’ll show you tonight.

Bahar pressed his hand gently against her stomach, as if the touch could steady them both.

— Rengin’s having such a hard time, — Bahar sighed. — She’s holding herself together, but I can see the pain in her eyes.

Evren started to respond, drew breath — but the words about the new appointment stuck in his throat. It wasn’t the moment. Not now.

— Everything’s falling apart, — Bahar continued, as if she hadn’t noticed his silence. — Cem… Yusuf… the patient’s death… I can’t even tell anymore where the doctor ends and the person begins.

— Maybe there is no line, — he said quietly. — Maybe that’s our punishment — to heal others while never managing to heal ourselves.

— You wanted to say something, didn’t you? — she caught him immediately; nothing escaped her.

Evren froze, met her eyes… and couldn’t.

— Later. Not now, — he said, shaking his head.

She didn’t press. For a moment, she just searched his face — then nodded.

— Everything feels endless lately, — she whispered.

His hand traced slow circles on her abdomen, his movements matching hers.

— I can’t… and I don’t want to talk about it right now, — he murmured. — Not about Sert, not about the hospital. It all feels… distant, like it belongs to someone else. — His voice dropped to a whisper. — Not now. All I can think about is this — what I feel. How much I’m drawn to you.

She looked into his tired eyes, listening to his rough, uneven voice.

— Then don’t talk, — she said softly. — Let’s just stand like this.

She no longer cared that they were in plain view. Bahar leaned forward slightly and rested her head on his shoulder. They didn’t let go of each other’s hands. The warmth of his palm seeped beneath her clothes, beneath her skin, catching her pulse and blending with it.

For a moment, everything went still. Then, from somewhere down the hall, came faint voices — someone calling for Yusuf. Bahar tensed; Evren’s body stiffened.

— He’s here. He’s alive, Evren, — she said gently. — Go to him. He needs you. Talk to him. Please.

— I’ll come back, — Evren said, his hand still on her belly before he let go.

— I know, — she whispered. — Or I’ll come to you.

Evren started down the corridor, but halfway there he stopped and looked back. Their eyes met through the quiet glow of the lobby. She smiled.

— And please… no panic, all right? — she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

He nodded, realizing that the fear he’d confessed to her was now following him — close behind, relentless, unwilling to let him go.

***

He took a step — then another. The cold sank deep into his bones. The ceiling lights hummed steadily, like the breathing of this lifeless room. Kamil approached the table. On its metal surface lay a clear evidence bag containing his wife’s belongings. A white sweater. A broken watch. A wedding ring wrapped in a napkin.

His fingers trembled as he touched the plastic, as if afraid he might damage the memory itself.

Kamil ran his hand gently across the bag, like he was stroking Ayşe’s shoulder. Then he pulled from his pocket a small spool of white thread — the same one he had carried ever since the day Ayşe had knitted a tiny cap for their unborn child.

He unwound a single thread, stared at it for a long time without blinking, then carefully placed it inside the bag, beside the ring.

— So you can be together, — he whispered through shaking lips.

For a moment, he thought the thread moved — alive, trembling like a thin umbilical cord between what was and what would be. Slowly, reverently, he sealed the bag and straightened up.

His face had changed. The pain hadn’t gone anywhere — it had only hardened, condensed into something dense and cold, a weight that would never leave him.