Bolot Begaliev
Efendi II: Where Love Begins Again

Prologue

Some journeys begin with a glance.

Some – with a question you’ve carried too long.

And some, like this one, begin in silence.

A silence so deep, it hums beneath your skin.

Efendi had crossed mountains for love.

He had built a family not from tradition,

but from tenderness, risk, and soul.

He had laughed with Jenny in Berlin,

watched Cindy sleep under foreign stars.

And now —

he stood in a land of heat, glass towers, and ancient winds: Kuwait.

He came not searching for someone —

but for something he couldn’t yet name.

A truth, perhaps. A wound that hadn’t healed.

A question about who he was now —

as a man, a father, a witness.

Kuwait didn’t greet him with answers.

It offered stories.

Stories of justice and cruelty.

Of women whose voices echoed behind closed doors.

Of children who knew too much too soon.

Of laughter in the shadow of fear.

And Efendi listened.

As he always had.

But this time, his heart didn't just listen —

it remembered.

Because sometimes, to find peace,

you must face the stories

you once turned away from.

Chapter 1. Kuwait’s Story. Said’s Birthday

The house was full of life from early morning. Bright and spacious, overlooking the garden and a fountain made of volcanic stone, Efendi’s home was preparing to welcome dear guests. The occasion was special – the birthday of little Said, the son of Efendi and Cindy.

By evening, friends gathered in the courtyard. Jovial Ivan arrived, along with energetic Natasha, eccentric Jenny, elegant Doha, and Mr. Kuwait – an old comrade of Efendi’s from their student days.

The scent of pilaf and grilled kebabs filled the air. Music played, children ran around clowns and inflatable balloons. At the festively set table adorned with golden fruits and fresh flowers, there was a lighthearted nostalgia and the promise of unexpected revelations.

Jenny and the Song

After a few glasses of fermented mare’s milk, Jenny went to take a shower. Soon, the whole party heard her voice, singing from behind the door with mock passion:

“She wanted to live in Manhattan-a-a, In one bed with Tom Cruise-e-e, Columbia Pictures does not prese-e-ent…” Everyone laughed. Except Efendi – who suddenly froze. A thought struck him: Her son… he looks too much like me. Could he be mine? He lowered his eyes, lost in thought. But the idea slipped away like a shadow. He didn’t want to darken the evening with doubt.

Kuwait’s Story

As dessert was served, Cindy turned respectfully to Mr. Kuwait:

– Mr. Kuwait, tell us – what have you been doing all these years? What has life brought you?

Kuwait, a stern man in a crisp white shirt, smoothed his mustache and began:

– Efendi and I studied together. I later went to military school and became a pilot. Eventually, I transferred to the military prosecutor’s office. My first case was the murder of a female soldier. It still haunts me.

– Tell us! – Natasha leaned forward.

Kuwait nodded:

– She was found dead in her apartment. Her mother grew alarmed – she’d tried calling all day, no answer. She came over, used her spare key, and found her daughter in the bedroom. No signs of a struggle, no forced entry. The autopsy said it was strangulation. Estimated time of death – several days earlier.

He paused. The courtyard grew quiet.

– She was strong, physically trained – not someone who’d give up easily. A necklace, a notebook, and a phone were missing. But cash was left untouched – strange. No fingerprints. Only a transit card – our only clue.

– Was she seeing someone? – Jenny returned to the table, wrapped in a robe.

– Yes. A friend revealed she’d been dating a military man – someone on a temporary posting. And she had a neighbor named Mars.

– Mars? What kind of name is that? – Ivan chuckled.

– Suspicious type. But his prints didn’t match. As for the soldier – he vanished. The missing necklace never showed up in pawnshops. The case hit a wall.

He fell silent.

– But the killer couldn’t have just disappeared, right? – asked Doha.

Kuwait gave her a slow smile.

– He didn’t. He was hiding in plain sight.

Everyone looked around. He went on:

– A year later, I was at the gym. A man approached me – tall, confident. Something about him felt off. We started chatting. And then – he slipped. Mentioned her name. I had never said it.

– And? – Cindy held her breath.

– He was the soldier. The affair had ended, and she wanted to move on. He came over – to talk. She refused. He lost control. Said he didn’t mean to kill her. Just… "strangled her."

Silence. Only the fountain whispered.

– Did you convict him? – asked Efendi.

– Life sentence. No parole. That case taught me – there’s no such thing as a perfect crime. Guilt leaves traces – in gestures, in glances, in slips of the tongue. You just have to know how to listen.

Efendi lowered his gaze, the memory of Poyuzbek flashing before him. History repeats. Only the names change.

Kuwait’s Second Case: "The Stopped Clock"

The evening had turned cool, and everyone moved into a cozy room by the fireplace. Some sipped tea, others – strong black coffee. Ivan told a story from his youth, but Cindy turned to Kuwait and asked:

– You said your first case still haunts you… Was there another that follows you to this day?

Kuwait remained silent for a long time. Then, sipping his tea and gazing into the fire, he said:

– There was. My second case. I called it “The Case of the Stopped Clock.”

The room fell still.

Kuwait’s Third Case: “The Woman with the Eyes of a Seagull”

She appeared at the prosecutor’s office without warning. No call. No appointment. She simply walked into my office, as if she knew I’d be there.

Tall. Dressed in black. Her face veiled. Only her eyes were visible – pale gray, almost white. Like a seagull’s. Cold, gleaming, always as if caught in the wind.

“I don’t know who killed my husband,” she said. “But I know you won’t believe a single witness.”

I was just starting out then. Young, confident in logic, evidence, and structure. But she… she offered no facts. Only instinct.

“His death was a performance,” she said. “They’ll mislead you, unless you can feel the lie.”

Death in the Basement

Her husband was found in the basement of an apartment building. The door had been locked from the outside. He’d been strangled. Nearby – a half-wilted rose. Everything looked like an accident. Or a suicide. Or a tragedy involving a jealous lover.

But the body lay too perfectly. Arms crossed. Shoes neatly placed beside him. As if he had laid himself out.

Neighbors repeated the same refrain: – “He was quiet. Kind. Smiled a lot. Didn’t drink. Never argued.” – “Friends?” – “Barely social.”

The deeper I dug, the less I knew. He disappeared every Tuesday for 2–3 hours. No one knew where. His phone was clean. His computer – wiped messages. One strange file: “Gulls_screaming_32bit.wav”

Just a sound. Seagulls screeching. But… at second 47 – a human scream.

I sent it to the lab. The technician said: – “It’s not a scream. It’s… a woman’s voice, distorted in pitch.”

Chapter 3. The Wife’s Shadow

I met with her again. – “You had a motive,” I said. She nodded. Without fear.

“I wanted him gone. But I didn’t want him dead. I knew he was lying to me. Not about a woman – about himself. He wasn’t who he claimed to be.”

I didn’t arrest her. Something deep inside said – she wasn’t the killer. But she knew who was.

Then I did something I’d never done before. I went to the old archives. Soviet-era files, from the time when his father had served in intelligence.

And there I found…

A folder: “Case No. 0114. The Ghost Son.” Name: the same. Photo – a boy with gull’s eyes.

The report read: “Child shows signs of dual personality. Tendency toward control and manipulation. Highly gifted. Able to mimic all emotional states.”

His father feared him.

The Unraveling

I returned to the basement. Examined everything again. That’s when I noticed a small hole in the wall. Behind it – a hidden camera. Someone had filmed his death.

The footage was short. But clear. He placed the noose around his own neck. And said:

– “You want the truth, Kuwait? The truth is, I didn’t want to live. But I wanted everyone to believe I was murdered. Let her suffer. Let you dig. I’m dead – but the game goes on.”

It was murder – with the victim’s own hands.

He orchestrated his death like a play. To accuse, to frighten, to break those who knew him.

Epilogue

“That was the scariest case I’ve ever worked,” said Kuwait, eyes fixed on the fireplace.

“Why?” asked Cindy.

“Because the killer… was him. But the weapon – was all of us. His wife. His father. Me. We believed the mask. And never saw the abyss.”

The guests sat in silence. The echo of his words hung in the air.

“And the wife?” asked Ivan.

“She left. Went north. Where seagulls fly. Just like her eyes.”

Kuwait. The Return of Lara

Nine years after the Basement Case

Location: Tbilisi, Georgia

Time: An autumn evening

Kuwait was already home. He had no taste for crowds anymore. He lived in a modest apartment overlooking gray rooftops, drank black tea, listened to old music, and read criminal cases like detective novels – now for the mind, not for duty.

But one autumn evening, as the rain poured from the sky and a gypsy romance played on the radio, he received a letter. A simple envelope, no return address.

Inside – a postcard with a picture of a seagull. And just two lines:

"Do you still think I ran away?"

"Wine in Tbilisi is not meant to be drunk alone. – Lara"

He knew it wasn’t a joke. The handwriting was the same. Sharp, like gunshots. Her letters.

A Ghost from the Past

He flew to Tbilisi on the third day. No luggage. Just a coat, a notebook, and a folding knife – a habit from his youth.

The wine bar from the letter was nestled on a slope in the Old City. Inside – warm light, the scent of pomegranates and cinnamon. And… her.

Lara sat by the window. Older now. Slim. No lipstick. Just those eyes – the same, like a seagull’s – still piercing.

“Hello, Prosecutor,” she said without turning. “You came after all.”

He sat across from her. Silence hung between them like a silk scarf.

“Why now?” he asked.

“Because… you’re the only one who understood everything. And the only one who didn’t arrest me.”

“I still could.”

“No. You won’t. You want to know what you didn’t know.”

He looked into her eyes. She wasn’t lying. She never did – she simply didn’t tell everything.

“He wasn’t just broken,” she said. “He was dangerous. To himself and to others. He told me once he would kill someone – just to feel like a god. I left him. He found me. He said, ‘If you leave – I’ll kill myself. But in a way that gets you jailed.’”

“He recorded the video…” Kuwait murmured.

“I know. He was a genius of deceit. A theatrical genius. His death was a stage act. He left a letter in another apartment, explaining how to mislead the investigation.”

“Why did you stay silent?”

“Because no one would’ve believed me. And because… I was afraid that you would. And then everything would collapse.”

She poured herself wine. Slowly, as if filling a toast with tears.

“I loved him. And he… only loved control.”

The Final Transaction

“Did you come to surrender?” he asked.

“No. I came to release you.”

“Release me?”

“I was your one unfinished file. The only one. You’ve aged. But you still carry me inside. It’s time to close the case.”

She handed him an envelope.

Inside – a letter from an Interpol investigator:

"Criminal Case No. 0114. Closed due to lack of criminal evidence. Video ruled fraudulent. Lara N. officially exonerated."

He said nothing. Just drank the wine. Bitter. Georgian. Like memory.

Epilogue

When I returned home, it was already late. I sat by the window, took out my notebook, opened the first page and crossed out:

"Lara. Under surveillance."

It became:

"Lara. Alive. Free. Forgiven."

And for the first time in nine years – I exhaled, easily.

Ice, Altitude, and Madness

Efendi slammed his palm on the table and shouted:

"Enough gloom, Kuwait! I'm going to host the craziest, most spectacular car race of my life – Adrenaline on the Roof of the World – across icy ledges and vertical slopes of the Alai mountains! This isn’t just a race – it’s a show balanced between gravity and madness!"

The Setup

By morning, preparations had begun. The starting point: Karatash Pass, 3,800 meters above sea level. The air was thin; your pulse quickened just from breathing. But the real challenge – the track ran along a mountain ridge, with a glacier on one side and a sheer drop on the other.

Eagles circled overhead, journalist drones hovered in place, and spectators down below tuned in through augmented reality goggles.

Efendi unveiled his new beast:

XT-R 2025 Arctic Edition

•      Power: 2050 hp (hybrid engine + supercapacitors)

•      0–100 km/h: 1.7 sec

•      Body coating: ice-chrome with laser etching

•      Tires: adaptive studded “9.0”s

•      Interior: heat-resistant leather with fur trim, heated steering wheel, and built-in kettle for brewing tea

•      AI assistant: speaks in a broadcaster's voice and recites proverbs before every dangerous turn

“I call it Arkhar,” Efendi said. “Like the mountain ram – it never slips off a ledge.”

Competitors Without Brakes

•      Ivan – now in a V12 (…) with jet propulsion and a hookah built into the armrest.

•      Natasha – behind the wheel of an IceViper with neural driver support and rally-style co-steering AI.

•      Jenny – switched to a carbon-fiber racer with a self-healing body and an interior perfumed with luxury fragrances.

•      Mr. Kuwait – driving an armored crawler with tracks, a disabled turret (per race rules), but a working samovar and a playlist of 90s hits.

A Storm at Altitude

By the 12th kilometer, a mountain storm hit. Visibility dropped to zero. Snow buried the track; the racers drove blind.

Efendi switched to Turbo Mode – when the AI starts guiding you through philosophical proverbs:

"If the road disappears beneath your wheels, it doesn't mean you've lost your way…"

At the Fang of the Ice Wolf curve, Jenny drifted sideways at 350 km/h. Ivan launched his turbine and jumped a snowy chasm. Kuwait drove steadily, slowly – and served hot tea to the drones.

Finishing Through the Storm

The final stretch – vertical ice. One wrong move, and it was a fall into the abyss.

Efendi activated Turbo-YURTA Mode, transforming the car into a hybrid beast – spikes gripped the ice, traditional music played.

He overtook everyone on the icy arc, soared into the air at the finish, flipped mid-flight, and landed precisely on the finish carpet – greeted with a leather flask of kumis.

The crowd roared. The AI whispered:

“You didn’t just win, Efendi. You became a legend of the Alai.”

“That’s right, friends,” Efendi grinned, “from now on, I’m not a racer – I’m a navigator by stars. But remember – true speed lives in the heart, not under the hood.”

Sands of Destiny

A month later, Efendi received a golden-sealed invitation:

“Royal Al-Dubai Race. The winner shall receive the Diamond Steering Wheel and the respect of the Seven Emirates.”

“How can I say no?” Efendi said, waving at his donkey munching a carrot in the corner. “But not you, brother. That desert’s too hot – your hooves would melt.”

He summoned Argymak, installed desert tires, reinforced the A/C, and flew to Dubai. He was welcomed with drums and coffee topped with golden foam.

Sheikhs and Beasts

The competition was fierce:

•      Sheikh Ahmad – in a Lamborghini Dune V10 Desert-X, turbocharged with a subwoofer-specific air conditioner and a gold-scented air freshener.

•      Princess Yasmin – in a McLaren Falcon 4WD with an autopilot that knew the Quran by heart.

•      Nasser Al-Bahr – drift champion in a Toyota Hilux Safari H2, custom-tuned by Bedouins in the Omani mountains.

•      Kuwait returned once again in his Volga V12, emblazoned with: “Don’t chase me – you’ll regret it!”

Mirages and Scorpions

The race began under a scorching sun. Sand blinded the racers. The track twisted through dunes, ravines, and the infamous Sheikh Shaft, where no one had survived in two years.

Efendi activated Bedouin Mode – the car selected solid ground by itself, while the AI declared:

“Relax, agha. We’re home. Just trade the teahouse for a dune.”

At the 12th kilometer, Princess Yasmin got stuck – her McLaren sank into the sand. Kuwait threw her a tow rope, losing a full minute. “Respect matters more than victory,” he said.

As they neared the finish, a sandstorm hit. Most slowed down. But Argymak moved like a fairy tale beast. When others stalled in dust, Efendi engaged Berkut Mode – the engine roared and pierced the storm like an arrow.

He crossed the finish first. Bedouins tossed scarves and dates into the air.

The Diamond Steering Wheel – his.

The sheikhs rose and shouted:

“Efendi – guest with the soul of a falcon and the speed of wind!”

hapter 7. Ice, Altitude, and Madness

Efendi slammed his palm on the table and shouted:

"Enough gloom, Kuwait! I'm going to host the craziest, most spectacular car race of my life – Adrenaline on the Roof of the World – across icy ledges and vertical slopes of the Alai mountains! This isn’t just a race – it’s a show balanced between gravity and madness!"

The Setup

By morning, preparations had begun. The starting point: Karatash Pass, 3,800 meters above sea level. The air was thin; your pulse quickened just from breathing. But the real challenge – the track ran along a mountain ridge, with a glacier on one side and a sheer drop on the other.

Eagles circled overhead, journalist drones hovered in place, and spectators down below tuned in through augmented reality goggles.

Efendi unveiled his new beast:

XT-R 2025 Arctic Edition

•      Power: 2050 hp (hybrid engine + supercapacitors)

•      0–100 km/h: 1.7 sec

•      Body coating: ice-chrome with laser etching

•      Tires: adaptive studded “9.0”s

•      Interior: heat-resistant leather with fur trim, heated steering wheel, and built-in kettle for brewing tea

•      AI assistant: speaks in a broadcaster's voice and recites proverbs before every dangerous turn

“I call it Arkhar,” Efendi said. “Like the mountain ram – it never slips off a ledge.”

Competitors Without Brakes

•      Ivan – now in a V12 (…) with jet propulsion and a hookah built into the armrest.

•      Natasha – behind the wheel of an IceViper with neural driver support and rally-style co-steering AI.

•      Jenny – switched to a carbon-fiber racer with a self-healing body and an interior perfumed with luxury fragrances.

•      Mr. Kuwait – driving an armored crawler with tracks, a disabled turret (per race rules), but a working samovar and a playlist of 90s hits.

A Storm at Altitude

By the 12th kilometer, a mountain storm hit. Visibility dropped to zero. Snow buried the track; the racers drove blind.

Efendi switched to Turbo Mode – when the AI starts guiding you through philosophical proverbs:

"If the road disappears beneath your wheels, it doesn't mean you've lost your way…"

At the Fang of the Ice Wolf curve, Jenny drifted sideways at 350 km/h. Ivan launched his turbine and jumped a snowy chasm. Kuwait drove steadily, slowly – and served hot tea to the drones.

Finishing Through the Storm

The final stretch – vertical ice. One wrong move, and it was a fall into the abyss.

Efendi activated Turbo-YURTA Mode, transforming the car into a hybrid beast – spikes gripped the ice, traditional music played.

He overtook everyone on the icy arc, soared into the air at the finish, flipped mid-flight, and landed precisely on the finish carpet – greeted with a leather flask of kumis.

The crowd roared. The AI whispered:

“You didn’t just win, Efendi. You became a legend of the Alai.”

“That’s right, friends,” Efendi grinned, “from now on, I’m not a racer – I’m a navigator by stars. But remember – true speed lives in the heart, not under the hood.”

Sands of Destiny

A month later, Efendi received a golden-sealed invitation:

“Royal Al-Dubai Race. The winner shall receive the Diamond Steering Wheel and the respect of the Seven Emirates.”

“How can I say no?” Efendi said, waving at his donkey munching a carrot in the corner. “But not you, brother. That desert’s too hot – your hooves would melt.”

He summoned Argymak, installed desert tires, reinforced the A/C, and flew to Dubai. He was welcomed with drums and coffee topped with golden foam.

Sheikhs and Beasts

The competition was fierce:

•      Sheikh Ahmad – in a Lamborghini Dune V10 Desert-X, turbocharged with a subwoofer-specific air conditioner and a gold-scented air freshener.

•      Princess Yasmin – in a McLaren Falcon 4WD with an autopilot that knew the Quran by heart.

•      Nasser Al-Bahr – drift champion in a Toyota Hilux Safari H2, custom-tuned by Bedouins in the Omani mountains.

•      Kuwait returned once again in his Volga V12, emblazoned with: “Don’t chase me – you’ll regret it!”

Mirages and Scorpions

The race began under a scorching sun. Sand blinded the racers. The track twisted through dunes, ravines, and the infamous Sheikh Shaft, where no one had survived in two years.

Efendi activated Bedouin Mode – the car selected solid ground by itself, while the AI declared:

“Relax, agha. We’re home. Just trade the teahouse for a dune.”

At the 12th kilometer, Princess Yasmin got stuck – her McLaren sank into the sand. Kuwait threw her a tow rope, losing a full minute. “Respect matters more than victory,” he said.

As they neared the finish, a sandstorm hit. Most slowed down. But Argymak moved like a fairy tale beast. When others stalled in dust, Efendi engaged Berkut Mode – the engine roared and pierced the storm like an arrow.

He crossed the finish first. Bedouins tossed scarves and dates into the air.

The Diamond Steering Wheel – his.

The sheikhs rose and shouted:

“Efendi – guest with the soul of a falcon and the speed of wind!”

An Honest Conversation

The guests had gone. The courtyard lay quiet. Lanterns shimmered in golden-yellow hues, and evening silence settled over the garden. Only two women remained in the arbor beneath the trailing vines – Cindy and Jenny – wrapped in light blankets, holding cups of tea.

Jenny, watching the crimson sky, suddenly whispered:

"Cindy… I have to tell you something."

She hesitated, then met her friend’s eyes:

"My son… he’s Efendi’s. I kept it to myself for a long time. But now, with everything so warm and real, with Said playing alongside him… I realized: I can’t hide it anymore."

Cindy lowered her gaze for a moment. Her lips trembled slightly. But then she took a deep breath, gently held Jenny’s hand, and said calmly:

"I felt it… and now that you've said it out loud, I feel only lighter. Listen… We have a hunting lodge in the mountains. It's cozy: warm, a kitchen, internet, even a sauna. Go stay there. Let the boy get to know his father. Let Said get to know his brother."

Jenny stared at her, admiration growing in her eyes.

"Cindy… you’re so noble. So gentle. You’re not just a friend – you’re the bright part of my life."

Cindy smiled. The lantern’s glow sparkled in her eyes:

"And you’re like a sister to me. I want to care for you and your son. We're forever connected now."

A Few Weeks Later

Jenny and her son moved into the lodge. Efendi came by daily – bringing bread and cheese, toys, laughter. He taught both boys to ride a donkey, to make dumplings, to skip stones across the lake.

And Cindy and Jenny would sit in the garden, sipping tea in silence, watching the man they both loved grow into a father – tender, real.

Their small universe was fragile but honest. They agreed: on even days, Efendi would spend evenings with Cindy; on odd days – with Jenny.

And so it went.

Tonight Was an Even Day

Cindy and Efendi sat on the terrace, wrapped in a soft blanket. The sun sank behind the hills, staining the sky with peach and garnet.

Efendi looked at her, touched her hand:

"You know, Cindy… You're my silence – the place where I hear myself. You're the lamp in a house with windows facing the sky. With you, even the mountains feel smaller."

Cindy laughed gently, leaning her shoulder against his:

"And you’re my strength. My chaos, and my anchor. We’re a family. We’ll be alright."

That night, with crickets singing and a dog barking far away, their hearts were full of peace. Cindy sat beside Efendi, wrapped in a light blanket. Outside the bedroom window, the evening dimmed slowly. The air carried the scent of meadow grass and the cool quiet of the mountains. The room glowed with the soft light of a night lamp.

Efendi looked at her as if for the first time.

"You…" he whispered, "you’re like the breath of light. I can’t tell if you’re from the world or from a dream."

Cindy smiled slightly. Her eyes sparkled – not from the lamp, but from something deeper. With him, she felt real – not a mask, not a woman in a photo, but herself.

When he touched her hand, it wasn’t passion – it was tenderness. When he held her, it wasn’t as a hero – but as a man who had found what he had always been searching for. And she let herself melt into it – into trust, into warmth, into the living breath of love.

They were together – not just in body, but in heart, in memory, in everything that lived and ached inside them. It wasn’t an escape from life – it was a return to themselves.

Later, lying in silence, she stroked his hair and thought:

"This must be how a tree feels under the wind. How the sea feels when the river returns."

She didn’t just love him. She respected his vulnerability. Her heart was filled with the sense that everything had happened just right. Not too early. Not too late. But perfectly – on time.

"I want you to live happy," she whispered. "To watch our children grow. And when things are hard… just say, 'I’m here.'"

He nodded, eyes still closed. Then whispered:

"And you were always here. Even before I knew you."

Chapter 9. Morning Awakening

Morning arrived gently in the mountains. Light didn’t flood the room – it merely brushed its walls with shy fingers. The breeze stirred the curtains, carrying in the scent of cold sky and warm sun.

Cindy was the first to wake. She lay nestled against Efendi, listening to his calm, steady breath. His hand rested on her waist, as if even in sleep, he wanted to stay close.

She rose slightly, without breaking the embrace, and slipped on a sheer silk robe – as light and translucent as morning mist. The fabric caressed her skin like wind in a valley. She stepped to the window, looked at the dawn – and smiled.

Efendi opened his eyes and saw her silhouette in the morning glow. For a moment, he held his breath. In that instant, she didn’t seem like a woman of this world – but something between a dream and the earth, between a force of nature and warmth.

“I don’t know if I’m awake…” he whispered, “or still dreaming.”

Cindy returned to him, settling onto the bed slowly, without a word. Her fingers traced his cheek, his shoulder. Their foreheads touched. They didn’t speak – words would’ve been too much.

They embraced again, not just with arms – but with breath, with skin, with the shared feeling that to be close like this… was happiness.

Later, as the morning light grew brighter and birds began to chirp outside, Cindy and Efendi, wrapped in cozy robes, sat on the terrace of the hunting lodge. The air smelled of fresh coffee, hot flatbread, and honey gifted by the neighbor who ran the village bakery.

Cindy refilled Efendi’s cup, looking at him with that kind of tenderness only a woman confident in her love can carry.

“You know,” she said softly, “all my life I was afraid to get too close to someone. Afraid I’d lose myself. But with you… I don’t lose myself. I find myself.”

Efendi smiled, broke off a piece of bread, dipped it in honey, and offered it to her – like old couples do, without fuss, but with warmth, like a ritual.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «Литрес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на Литрес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.