"Sell it," Ferman commanded. "Use the money. Buy a house with a garden. Plant something that grows. Don't waste your tears on dirt and a name."
"I want you to be free," Ferman replied, finally looking his son in the eye. "Every time you look at a headstone, you’re looking backward. I’ve spent my whole life carrying the weight of my father’s ghost. I won't let you carry mine. If I’m gone, I’m gone. Don’t bring flowers to a piece of marble just to feel better about a life we didn't live together." Ferman Akdeniz Ben Г–lГјrsem MezarД±ma Gelme
The rain in Istanbul didn’t wash things away; it just made the grime stick. Ferman Akdeniz sat in the corner of a dimly lit tea house in Kadıköy, his fingers tracing the rim of a chipped glass. He was a man who had spent his life building walls—some out of concrete, most out of silence. "Sell it," Ferman commanded