He remembered the night she told him she had to leave. "It's just for a while," she had whispered, her eyes reflecting the shimmering Bosphorus. But "a while" had stretched into seasons, and seasons into years. Every night, the lyrics of Ali Seven’s song echoed in his mind: I waited for many nights, I looked at the roads.

The waiter, an old man named Yusuf who had seen a thousand heartbreaks, placed a fresh glass of tea on the table without being asked. "The rain is starting, Selim. She won't come in a storm."

As the clock struck midnight, he slowly stood up, adjusted his coat, and stepped into the cold rain. He would walk home, sleep fitfully, and tomorrow, he would begin waiting all over again. Because in the world of the lonely, the waiting is sometimes the only thing that feels like home.