The first light of dawn in Istanbul wasn’t yellow; it was a bruised, translucent blue. Kerem sat on a wooden bench at the Haydarpaşa station, the air smelling of salt and old iron. He wasn't sure if he had actually woken up or if the rhythmic clacking of the approaching train was just another layer of his subconscious.
"Is the 6:15 real?" he asked, his voice sounding thin in the cold air.
As the sun finally cracked the skyline, casting long, golden shadows across the platform, the whistle blew. Kerem blinked against the sudden glare. When he opened his eyes, the bench across from him was empty. There was no book, no woman, and the station was silent.
She looked up, and for a second, her eyes held the entire horizon. "At sunrise, nothing is entirely real," she replied. "It’s all just something like a dream."
He reached into his pocket and found a small, silver key he didn't recognize. It was cold to the touch, a solid piece of evidence from a dream that refused to fully evaporate. He looked toward the sea, where the ferry was just beginning to cut through the water, and realized that some mornings don't start the day—they just continue the dream.
Across from him sat a woman in a trench coat, reading a book with no title. She looked familiar—like a face from a faded photograph he’d lost years ago. Every time he tried to focus on her features, the morning mist seemed to thicken, blurring her edges.
