A Woman Without Advice, or Nobody Women. Psychological thriller
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And then one of them arrived.
Kate, 35 years old. Her eyes were red from sleeplessness, her shoulders slumped under the weight of an invisible burden. She stopped a few steps away, as if afraid to come too close – yet unable to leave.
“Are you… the one?” Her voice trembled, as if she already knew the answer but still hoped for a miracle.
“Which one?” Dorothy raised her gaze, calm as the surface of a lake.
“The one people come to… when they don’t know how to keep living with a man who won’t speak.”
Dorothy smiled – not mockingly, not condescendingly, but like someone smiling at a person who has finally found a door but hasn’t yet dared to enter.
“I’m not ‘the one’. But I’m here.”
Her words sounded like a spell – simple yet powerful. Kate slowly sank onto the bench, as if her legs could no longer support her.
“I’m not a ‘Nobody Men’, ” Dorothy continued, and a steely resolve rang beneath her gentleness. “I’m a ‘Nobody Women’. Because women also get lost. Not in how to love… but in how not to lose themselves while loving.”
Kate covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders trembled, but she made no sound – only silent tears traced paths down her cheeks.
“I give everything. I work, I care, I nurture… And he looks right through me. Like I’m furniture. Like I don’t exist.”
“And you think: if I give more, he’ll see you?” Dorothy asked, not with judgement but as a doctor stating a diagnosis.
“Yes…” Kate whispered. “I believe that if I’m good enough, he’ll finally notice me.”
“Have you asked yourself: ‘What do I feel?’”
Silence. Kate froze, as if those words had struck her heart.
“No,” she finally exhaled. “I’m afraid to ask. What if the answer is ‘I don’t care’?”
“Then you’ll know the truth,” Dorothy placed her hand on Kate’s arm, and the touch felt like an electric jolt. “And the truth – even if it hurts – is better than illusion.”
She opened the notebook. The first page was filled with neat yet firm handwriting:
“Nobody Women doesn’t teach you to be strong.
She reminds you: being vulnerable is also strength.
You don’t have to save anyone.
You have the right to live – even if he isn’t ready to walk with you”.
Kate read these lines, and something shifted within her. Not suddenly, not dramatically – but like a crack in a wall through which the first ray of light had broken through.
2. Alexander Sees from Afar
Alexander stood by the fountain, hidden behind dense foliage. He didn’t approach – he knew that sometimes the most important things happen not in words, but in the pauses between them. He watched as Dorothy placed a new pendant on the bench – not a heart, but two hands holding each other.
Next to the pendant lay a small plaque with the words:
“Here sits Nobody Women. Come. Speak. Cry. You are not alone”.
Alex smiled. Not because his work was done, but because it had become someone else’s. Because the flame he had once lit now burned in another heart – and that flame was not weaker, but perhaps even brighter.
3. A Note in His Notebook
He took out his notebook and, in the light of the rising sun, wrote the lines that seemed to beg to be put on paper:
“Sydney. Dawn. A woman sat where I once sat.
And the world didn’t end.
It expanded. Nobody Men was never meant to be a title.
It was an invitation.
And today… someone answered – not with the same name, but with the same heart”.
He closed the notebook. The mist over the harbour began to dissipate, revealing the Sydney Opera House, whose sails were already gilded in the rays of the rising sun. The world kept living, but now it had room for one more story – the story of how one woman helped another find a voice where there had once been only silence.
Now empathy is not a masculine virtue.
It is a human practice.
And it is passed not through instruction, but through example.
Part 5: Sydney. “Where the Paths Cross”
1. Morning in the Botanic Garden
The mist still clung to the eucalyptus branches, as if reluctant to let go of the night. The cassowaries had vanished – as if dissolved into the grey haze, leaving behind only faint traces on the damp earth. In this half-light, the garden seemed a place where time slowed down and reality lost its sharp edges.
Dorothy sat on a bench. She adjusted her glasses and flipped through the pages of her battered notebook – not a diary, but a map of human destinies, marked with tears, doubts, and timid glimmers of hope. Beside her lay a pendant – two hands intertwined in a silent dialogue. Below it, on a small plaque, the words: “Nobody Women”.
Alex emerged from behind the trees. In his hands he carried a thermos; a worn bag hung over his shoulder. He no longer wore his leather jacket, as if he had shed his old armour. His linen blazer softened his appearance, as if he himself had become a little lighter – not from the weight he carried, but from the realisation that the burden could be shared.
He stopped a few steps away.
“You left the pendant,” he said quietly, almost in a whisper, as if afraid to break the fragile silence of the morning.
“And did you come to take it back?” Dorothy smiled without looking up. Her smile was like a ray of sun breaking through the clouds – not bright, but warm.
“No. I came to see how it lives.”
She nodded, gesturing to the empty space beside her:
“Sit down, Nobody Men.”
He sat. Not as a mentor, not as a saviour, but simply as a human being – weary, yet not broken, searching, yet no longer desperate.
2. Dorothy’s Story
“I was a schoolteacher, 40 years old,” she began, looking somewhere beyond the garden, beyond this moment. “I taught children to read, write, count… but not to feel. I earned my PhD. Now I teach online at the University of California.”
Alex remained silent, but his silence was attentive – a form of listening, not merely a pause.
“What changed?” he asked, not demanding an answer but offering space for it.
“My daughter,” Dorothy’s voice trembled, but she didn’t retreat. “At 28, she left her husband – not because of infidelity, not because of money. But because he ‘didn’t see’ her. He looked at her, but didn’t see her soul, her pain, her dreams. And I… I told her: ‘Endure it. That’s how everyone lives.’”
She took off her glasses and wiped them – not because they were dirty, but because the motion gave her a moment’s respite.
“She left me too. For two years. She came back with a child. And with eyes full of a question: ‘Mom, why did you let me disappear?’”
Dorothy fell silent. There were no tears in her eyes – only quiet, hard-won wisdom.
“I realised: I spent my whole life teaching others – but forgot to ask myself, ‘What do I feel?’ That’s how I became Nobody Women. Not because I know the answers. But because I’m no longer afraid of the questions.”
Her words hung in the air like droplets of morning mist, slowly settling on Alex’s heart.
3. What Alex Has Now
“And you?” Dorothy asked, turning to him. “Are you still walking the path?”
“Yes. But not as a missionary. As… an echo,” he smiled, but there was no self-satisfaction or pride in his smile. “When I help, I don’t give myself. I reflect what already exists in a person: courage, pain, hope. I simply remind them: ‘You are not alone.’”
He paused, as if weighing every word.
“Now I don’t search for benches. I search for those who will become benches themselves. Like you.”
“So you’re leaving?” There was no reproach in her voice, only curiosity.
“Not leaving. Just… passing the baton.”
“Where to next?”
“Istanbul. Then Mexico City. Then – somewhere where someone will say for the first time: ‘I’m afraid to be kind.’”
Dorothy looked at him – not as a wanderer, not as a hero, but as a person who had found his way in the endless labyrinth of human souls.
“You’re not a hero, Alex.”
“No,” he nodded, not arguing.
“You’re a bridge.”
“And bridges don’t live for themselves. They exist so others can walk across them.”
His words sounded like a mantra, like a truth he hadn’t invented but discovered within himself.
4. The Exchange
Alex placed his old pendant on the bench – a heart, broken and mended. Each chip on it was a story: someone’s pain, someone’s insight, someone’s rebirth.
Dorothy placed hers beside it – two hands.
“Let them stay together,” she said. “Until the next one comes.”
“Or the next one,” Alex added, and there was a hope in his voice that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for a long time.
They sat in silence. Above them, the sun filtered through the leaves, painting the ground with intricate patterns of light and shadow. In this silence, there was no hierarchy, no “teacher” and “student,” no “helper” and “seeker.” There were only two hearts that understood:
“Empathy is not a role. It is breath.
It is like air – we don’t notice it while it’s there, but we die without it.
It is like light – it doesn’t shine for itself, but illuminates the path for others.
And in this lies the whole mystery. The whole pain. The whole beauty. The whole life”.
Part 6: Istanbul. “Affetmek” (“To Forgive”)
1. Gülhane Park, by the Bosphorus
Spring in Istanbul is like a whisper of change: chestnut trees are in bloom, their white blossoms trembling in the wind as if trying to hold the fragile balance between past and future. The air is infused with the salt of the Bosphorus and the scent of flowering trees – a blend of bitterness and hope.
On a bench by the water sits Fatima, 39 years old. A black headscarf envelops her head but does not hide the depth of her gaze – her eyes are dry, yet a sea of untold stories ripples within them. Beside her is Emin, her son, 10 years old, with eyes not yet accustomed to the weight of the world.
“You keep asking why we don’t hate them,” Fatima’s voice sounds steady, like the tide that knows: waves come and go, but the sea remains.
“Yes,” Emin clenches his fists. “They killed Grandma and Grandpa. Why forgive?”
Fatima turns to him. Her gaze holds not a lecture, but a quiet strength forged over years.
“Forgiveness is not for them, Emin. It’s for us. So that pain doesn’t become your home. So that you can breathe, not suffocate under its weight.”
Dorothy walks by. She stops, as if an invisible thread has drawn her to this bench.
“You speak of forgiveness as strength,” she says in Turkish, with a slight accent but with clarity that says: “I am not a random passerby here.”
“Because that’s what it is,” Fatima replies, not taking her eyes off her son. “Hatred is a chain. Forgiveness is the key. Even if you haven’t opened the door – you still carry the key in your pocket. And that gives hope.”
Emin looks at Dorothy, his eyes like two question marks.
“And you… are you the one who helps?”
“Sometimes. But today – I am learning from your mother,” Dorothy smiles, and in that smile there is not the arrogance of a teacher, but the humility of a student.
Fatima turns her head to her son; her voice grows softer, yet more weighty:
“Son, remember this: to forgive does not mean to forget. It means: ‘I will not let you steal my tomorrow.’ It means you choose to live, not to die in the past.”
Dorothy sits down beside them. She does not speak. She simply listens – as she was once taught in California. She listens not with her ears, but with her heart, letting silence become a bridge between two worlds: the world of pain and the world of hope.
2. The Shadow of the Past
The wind plays with the edge of Fatima’s headscarf, revealing a strand of grey hair. Dorothy notices it – not as a detail of appearance, but as a trace of what has been endured.
“How did you find this key?” she asks quietly, almost in a whisper.
Fatima remains silent for several seconds, as if weighing every word.
“I lost everything. My home, my family, my faith in justice. But one day I realised: if I let hatred become my essence, then they won’t just kill my loved ones – they’ll kill me too. I became a shadow that walks the earth but doesn’t live.”
She pauses, her gaze drifting towards the Bosphorus, where waves crash against the rocks as if trying to erase the marks of time.
“And then I asked myself: ‘What will remain when hatred is gone?’ The answer didn’t come right away. But when it did, I understood: what will remain is me. The real me. The one who can love, laugh, dream. The one who doesn’t have to be a victim.”
Dorothy nods. In her eyes there is not sympathy, but recognition. She has seen this before – in the eyes of other women who stood at the edge of the abyss and had to choose: to fall or to step forward.
3. The Echo of Forgiveness
Emin remains silent. His fingers grip the edge of the bench as if he’s trying to hold onto something elusive – perhaps hope.
“Mom, what if I can’t forgive?” His voice trembles, but there’s no weakness in it – only honesty.
“Then you’ll carry that pain like a stone in your heart,” Fatima places her hand on his arm. “But know this: you can always put that stone down. Not because they deserve forgiveness. But because you deserve freedom.”
Dorothy closes her eyes. She recalls her own story – how she sat on a bench in Sydney, how her heart was broken, how she searched for answers in other people’s eyes. Now she is here – not to give advice, but to be a witness. A witness to how forgiveness becomes not an act of weakness, but an act of courage.
“Forgiving is like breathing,” she says, opening her eyes. “You don’t think about it, but you can’t live without it. You just do it, because otherwise – it’s death.”
Fatima smiles – for the first time in a long while, her smile doesn’t look like a mask. It’s the smile of someone who has found light in the darkness.
“Exactly. Forgiveness is the breath of life.”
4. The Crossroads of Destinies
The sun rises higher, dispersing the morning mist. The Bosphorus gleams like a mirror reflecting not only buildings, but also the souls of those standing on its shores.
Dorothy stands up.
“Thank you,” she says. “You didn’t give me advice. You gave me an example.”
“We all give each other examples,” Fatima replies. “Sometimes – how not to do it. Sometimes – how to do it. The main thing is to see.”
Emin looks up at Dorothy.
“Are you leaving?”
“No. I’m staying. To one day become someone who helps another find the key.”
She walks away, but her steps sound like a promise – a promise to continue the journey where forgiveness is not an end, but a beginning.
Fatima and Emin remain. They sit in silence, but in this silence there are more words than in any conversation. In it lies the strength that emerges when a person stops being a hostage of the past and begins to live in the present.
And this is the essence of “Affetmek”:
“Forgiving is not weakness. It is a choice. A choice to be alive”.
Chapter II: The Shadow Behind
Part 1. New York. Columbia University. Night
The silence of the office was broken only by the occasional hum of an old air conditioner and the distant rumble of Manhattan – like the pulse of a giant organism throbbing beyond the window. Dorothy slowly closed her laptop. The screen froze for a moment, illuminating the last line of her new book like the final chord of a symphony:
“Women’s emotional invisibility in systems of power is not a flaw – it is a tool of control”.
She stretched, loosening her stiff shoulders. Her gaze involuntarily drifted to the window – the night city shimmered with lights, like the nervous system of a colossal being, where each glow was an impulse carrying its own secrets.
Her office didn’t shine with luxury. The simplicity here was not poverty, but a deliberate choice. The walls covered with books resembled a traveller’s library, gathering wisdom from around the world. Maps of continents shared space with photographs from field research: misty valleys of Papua New Guinea, dusty streets of Mali, mountain paths of Bolivia. Each photo was a page of an untold story.
In her memory resurfaced the words of her parents – anthropologists whose lives were a series of expeditions and discoveries: “Don’t look at what is said – look at who is made silent”. These words became her compass, her method, her creed.
For years she followed it, penetrating hidden corners of human behaviour, untangling threads of invisible connections. But now… now someone was watching her.
On the desk, like an alien object in this world of knowledge, lay an envelope. No stamp. No name. Only a single fingerprint on the flap – a silent message that sent a chill down her spine.
With trembling fingers she opened the envelope. Inside lay a photograph. Herself and her grandson, Luca, at the entrance to the park. The date and time in the corner of the photo burned her eyes: yesterday, 16:03.
On the back – writing in black marker, clear and ruthless:
“Stop digging. Or he will be the next”.
Her heart clenched, but panic didn’t come. Instead – cold clarity. She didn’t call the police. She “remembered”.
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