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Baran closed his eyes. The music was a bridge. He wasn't a criminal anymore, nor a legend. He was just a ghost returning to the river, carried home by a song that knew the way better than he did.

He began to play. The notes of "Fırat Ağıtı" didn't rise into the air; they bled into it. Each slide of the strings was a funeral procession for a world that had vanished while he was locked away. He thought of the scent of wild mountain thyme, the cold rush of the Euphrates, and the face of the woman he had lost to a shadow. Baran closed his eyes

As the melody deepened, a figure emerged from the darkness. It was Keje. She didn't speak—she hadn't spoken a word in three decades—but her silence was the harmony to his mourning. In the distance, the neon lights of a modern city flickered like a false promise, but here, on the edge of the world, there was only the ancient earth and the "Lament of the Fırat." He was just a ghost returning to the