Unanswered Questions

Rain fell gently over the village, tapping against thatched rooftops and leaves in a rhythm that was almost soothing. Gray clouds hung low, as if they, too, carried unspoken secrets. In the warm and dimly lit potion room, Karin sat in silence by the window. A thin steam rose from a wooden cup filled with brewed soara bark, the scent of herbs filling the space. But her mind wandered far from that room—across time and places she wished to avoid but could never truly leave behind.

Outside, Hasuna ran through the drizzle with the village children. Though he had recently been quieter and more melancholic, that afternoon he let out giggles as mud splashed at his feet. Hasan watched from a distance, leaning against an old coconut tree. For a moment, peace settled in his heart. But when his gaze drifted toward Karin’s window, that peace faded. He knew: there were questions left unanswered, and answers he needed to understand the woman who looked so much like his wife… but was clearly not the same.

That evening, when Hasuna fell asleep earlier than usual, Hasan found the courage to knock on Karin’s door.

“Come in,” her voice came, calm but distant.

Hasan stepped in and waited before sitting across from her. Between them stood a small wooden table with a gently glowing oil lamp. A long silence followed—not an awkward one, but the kind that feels like two rivers preparing to converge.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” he said softly. “But there’s something I’ve kept to myself.”

Karin looked at him—calm, yet guarded. Behind that composure was something fragile, like a rope pulled too tightly.

“Who are you, really?” Hasan asked. “I know you’re not my wife Karin. But you’re also not just an ordinary woman. I see it in the way you look at people… in the way you stay silent.”

Karin lowered her gaze. For a moment, only the sound of rain filled the room.

“My father died to save my mother and me,” she answered slowly. “Back then, war was raging in the Northern region. Enemy troops attacked our village. My father distracted them so we could escape.”

Hasan held his breath, surprised by the directness of her answer.

“We ran as far as we could. But they still found us. My mother... she was killed right before my eyes.” Her voice didn’t waver, but that made Hasan’s chest tighten. Her steadiness was like a wall long reinforced.

“And you?”

“Before they could get to me, another group of soldiers arrived. They were led by a captain named Ozcan. They defended what was left of our village… and saved me.”

Hasan murmured, “Ozcan…”

“Yes. After that, he was put on trial. Found guilty for failing to protect the area. He was discharged from the military. But he didn’t complain. He just said saving a single life was worth more than keeping his rank.”

“But he saved you.”

Karin nodded. “From then on, he brought me here. Took care of me, raised me... like his own child. I grew up under his guardianship.”

Hasan looked closely at her face. “Did he treat you like his own daughter?”

Karin gave a faint smile. “More than that. He picked wildflowers for me when I had a fever. He sewed my first cloak himself even though his hands were used to wielding swords. Every night, he sat by me and told stories about stars… and his wife who loved to sing. He placed a bowl of soup on my mother’s grave when I was too afraid to go there myself. Small things… but after all the war and violence, he still chose tenderness.”

Hasan fell silent. He could picture the man—strong, yet gentle. And he understood that among all of Karin’s wounds, the only place that had offered her true healing was that small home—and a father who wasn’t bound by blood, but chose to be one with all his heart.

“That’s why you’re strong,” he whispered. “Why you know so much, but also keep your distance.”

Karin met his gaze. “Not all wounds are visible. But wounds can’t be ignored either.”

The next night, Karin sat on her porch, weaving a small pouch from dried fibers. The air still held the scent of rain, and crickets chirped through the silence. Hasuna approached with a piece of cloth and a freshly drawn picture of his ship.

“Sis Karin,” he said hesitantly, “Can I tell you about Mama again?”

Karin smiled. “Of course.”

“She used to make me honey tea before bed. She always read me stories too, even when I pretended I already knew them,” he said, giggling.

Karin listened carefully, her fingers pausing mid-weave.

“Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll forget her voice,” Hasuna continued. “But when I tell you about her… it feels like I’m keeping her longer.”

Karin held her breath. Then slowly, she pulled Hasuna into her arms. “You won’t forget. You love her too deeply.”

Hasuna was quiet for a moment. “Sis Karin… have you ever lost someone you really loved?”

“My father. My mother,” Karin answered without hesitation. “But maybe... I also lost myself once.”

The boy looked up at her, confused.

“But I found myself again. Bit by bit, through people who didn’t give up on me.”

Hasuna looked at the sky. “I hope I can help you too, Sis Karin.”

Karin remained silent, then hugged him tighter. In that embrace, for a moment, time stood still.

“They say,” she whispered, “that in the last third of the night, prayers whispered under the stars go straight to God. You can send one to anyone up there.”

Hasuna turned to her. “Then... I’ll try tonight.”

A few days later, evening had fallen. After dinner, Hasan sat near the outdoor fire with Ozcan, who was chopping roots while cleaning his old spear.

“Thank you… for taking care of Karin all this time,” Hasan said suddenly.

Ozcan glanced at him, then offered a faint smile. “She’s stronger than she seems.”

“She told me you were like a father to her.”

Ozcan fell silent. Then his voice came, deep and steady. “I once had a daughter. And a wife who always waited for me to return from battle.”

Hasan looked up.

“But during the same war where I saved Karin… they didn’t make it. I spent too long on the battlefield. When I came back, my village was gone. My home reduced to ashes. I never even found their bodies.”

Hasan swallowed hard. But Ozcan continued, as if he needed to finish the story.

“When I saw that little girl standing alone among the ruins and flames… I felt like God gave me a second chance. Maybe not to make up for what I lost, but to protect what remained.”

Hasan bowed his head. That night felt long. But also like a silence that heals. All three of them bore wounds. But those wounds were what allowed them to find strength in each other.

A few mornings later, as the sun peeked through the fog, Hasan and Hasuna prepared to help harvest forest roots. Karin approached them then. Her face was calm, but her eyes held something new.

“You asked who I was,” she said to Hasan. “Now I want to ask—who do you think I am?”

Hasan paused, looking at the woman before him. Her hair was tied simply, her face serene, but her gaze held a world not easily spoken.

“You’re someone who’s lost more than words can describe. But you still choose to give. That’s enough.”

Karin lowered her head. “Thank you,” she whispered.

And in that warm morning, they walked side by side toward the fields. Step by step, there were still no clear answers. But sometimes, what matters most isn’t the answer—it's the courage to ask… and the willingness to listen.