The walls of the police station carried the cold from outside right into the room.
The chill of the night made the silence even sharper.
I kept my eyes fixed on a crack in the wall, while Caner had buried his head between his knees, refusing to speak.
The exhaustion that clung to us carried the marks of endless interrogations, questions, and heavy silences.
Each time the door opened, my heart almost leapt out of my chest.
It felt as if, at any moment, a face from the past would walk through.
And finally, it did.
Vedat Turan.
His gray coat collar was turned up, and he entered with one or two men beside him, struggling to hide the fury burning on his face.
Years of fatigue had gathered in his eyes, but the moment he saw his son, his knees almost gave out.
"Alpay…" he whispered.
The trembling warmth in his voice shattered every wall I'd built.
I stood up, but I couldn't look him in the eye.
In that moment, I was both a child and a man—both guilty and innocent.
He took a few steps forward, lifted his hand as if to strike me, but let it fall instead.
He grabbed my shoulders and looked straight into my eyes.
"You're… really alive," he said in a low voice. "Was it you who made me cry by your grave for three years?!"
My lips parted, but no sound came out. Tears filled my eyes.
"Father, I…" was all I could manage.
He couldn't hold back his anger any longer. He slammed his fist on the table, his voice echoing through the station.
"Three years! For three years, I prayed every night, and every morning I tried to accept that you were dead! And now you stand before me—what am I supposed to say? That you lived?!"
The officers turned their heads, but none of them intervened.
I met his eyes. "I didn't die, Father… but I wanted to. Every day, I wanted to die."
At that, the fury on his face melted into silence.
There was such exhaustion, such depth in my eyes that he finally saw it—
the boy from three years ago was gone.
The obedient, curious son had vanished, replaced by someone else.
Caner's head was still lowered. My father looked at him, then back at me.
"He was with you, wasn't he?"
"Yes," I said quietly. "He was there too. Maybe he suffered even more than I did."
My father nodded faintly. "What did they do to you two?… Enough. Let's go. There's no point staying here."
One of the officers handed over the release papers.
When we stepped outside, cameras flashed, reporters shouted, questions rained down.
The news had already spread: "Young men missing for three years found alive."
"Mr. Vedat, please! A statement!"
"You thought your son was dead—now he's here! How do you feel?"
"Who do you think did this?"
"Was this political? Or were they kidnapped?"
"Just as your career was rising, your son reappears—how does that make you feel?"
My father's men formed a wall to keep people away.
I bowed my head and hid behind his shoulder.
For a moment, I was a child again—only this time, there was no safety behind that shoulder.
Only the weight of guilt.
By dawn, we were at the airport.
My father sat by the window of the plane, his hands clenched together.
I watched the clouds drift outside, each patch of light lost among them, like the years we had lost.
"Tell me," he said suddenly.
I flinched.
"What happened that night?" he asked, his gaze unwavering. "Why did you go? Where did they take you?"
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice.
"Father… that night I only went to meet Caner. We found a red envelope on a boat. Then—bang—I woke up in another world. A lab. A camp. Captivity. Torture. Every day something different."
My voice trembled.
"They broke us again and again. Beat us, silenced us. Some days they healed us, just so they could start over. After a while, we forgot who we even were."
We landed. My father's men brought the car, and we continued the trip in silence.
After a while, he spoke, his hand clenched in a fist.
"Who took you?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. Not anymore. Maybe I was connected to someone. Maybe I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
His eyes glistened.
"My son… I promise you—I'll find them. Every last one."
"Father," I said, turning to meet his gaze,
"Fighting won't change anything. We tried to run, to fight back. Every time we did, it only got worse."
The damp wind of the Black Sea hit our faces as we arrived at his home.
When the door opened, warmth filled the air—mixed with memories.
An old clock ticked on the wall, each sound echoing a day long gone.
As I stepped inside, it felt like even the walls were watching me.
My father followed behind.
"This isn't your home anymore," he said quietly. "But… welcome back."
"Don't worry," I said with a faint smile.
"After being chained in a cold, damp cell for years, even this place feels like home."
My voice carried both pain and longing.
We sat at the table.
He motioned for the servants to bring food—he didn't take orders anymore; he gave them.
Between us, a heavy silence lingered.
"So… you're not a servant anymore, huh, Father?"
"Everything changed after you were gone."
"Yeah, I noticed. Everyone moved on. It's like losing a son wasn't even real. Like I never existed. Life just… went on."
"I searched for you," he said firmly.
"Days and nights. Tarık Bey, the others—we spread word across the country. But nothing. Then one day… a message. A body. They said it was you. They handed me a coffin. I couldn't even recognize your face."
He paused, voice breaking.
"I wanted to keep you away from this life—from this system. But I couldn't even recognize my own son. Every day I fought not to believe you were dead. Every day I lived for revenge, for the hope of finding you. But there was never a trace."
A bitter smile touched my lips.
"And I spent those days wondering if you were alive, too. Maybe that curiosity was what kept me going. Or maybe it was what got me lost."
He looked away. "Curiosity can destroy a man… or keep him alive."
"Sometimes," I said softly, "it changes him."
Night deepened, and the air grew heavier.
Finally, my father slid a file across the table.
"A report from the hospital," he said. "The doctors wrote everything."
I opened it.
Photos. Medical terms. Broken bones. Stitches.
Each page told a story of pain—a chapter of torment.
He watched my face. The quiet in my eyes said more than words ever could.
"Why did they do this to you?" he asked.
I closed the file slowly.
"Why show me this, Father? Everything written there… I lived it. Every single day."
He stood and walked to the window. Outside, waves crashed against the shore.
"Enough," he said. "Whatever it takes, I'll find them. I need to know what they turned you into."
I rose as well.
"Some answers," I said quietly, "never bring peace."
He turned, meeting my eyes.
"You're still my son."
"And I'm still the result of your fears," I whispered.
The wind slipped through the doorway. The ticking of the clock returned.
Dawn crept in.
Caner had fallen asleep on the couch, but my father and I stayed awake until morning.
Two men—a father and a son—sat in silence, carrying years of pain, anger, and love in the same room.
No one spoke.
But nothing would ever be the same again.