Efendi II: Where Love Begins Again

And Cindy and Jenny would sit in the garden, sipping tea in silence, watching the man they both loved grow into a father – tender, real.

Their small universe was fragile but honest. They agreed: on even days, Efendi would spend evenings with Cindy; on odd days – with Jenny.

And so it went.

Tonight Was an Even Day

Cindy and Efendi sat on the terrace, wrapped in a soft blanket. The sun sank behind the hills, staining the sky with peach and garnet.

Efendi looked at her, touched her hand:

"You know, Cindy… You're my silence – the place where I hear myself. You're the lamp in a house with windows facing the sky. With you, even the mountains feel smaller."

Cindy laughed gently, leaning her shoulder against his:

"And you’re my strength. My chaos, and my anchor. We’re a family. We’ll be alright."

That night, with crickets singing and a dog barking far away, their hearts were full of peace. Cindy sat beside Efendi, wrapped in a light blanket. Outside the bedroom window, the evening dimmed slowly. The air carried the scent of meadow grass and the cool quiet of the mountains. The room glowed with the soft light of a night lamp.

Efendi looked at her as if for the first time.

"You…" he whispered, "you’re like the breath of light. I can’t tell if you’re from the world or from a dream."

Cindy smiled slightly. Her eyes sparkled – not from the lamp, but from something deeper. With him, she felt real – not a mask, not a woman in a photo, but herself.

When he touched her hand, it wasn’t passion – it was tenderness. When he held her, it wasn’t as a hero – but as a man who had found what he had always been searching for. And she let herself melt into it – into trust, into warmth, into the living breath of love.

They were together – not just in body, but in heart, in memory, in everything that lived and ached inside them. It wasn’t an escape from life – it was a return to themselves.

Later, lying in silence, she stroked his hair and thought:

"This must be how a tree feels under the wind. How the sea feels when the river returns."

She didn’t just love him. She respected his vulnerability. Her heart was filled with the sense that everything had happened just right. Not too early. Not too late. But perfectly – on time.

"I want you to live happy," she whispered. "To watch our children grow. And when things are hard… just say, 'I’m here.'"

He nodded, eyes still closed. Then whispered:

"And you were always here. Even before I knew you."

Chapter 9. Morning Awakening

Morning arrived gently in the mountains. Light didn’t flood the room – it merely brushed its walls with shy fingers. The breeze stirred the curtains, carrying in the scent of cold sky and warm sun.

Cindy was the first to wake. She lay nestled against Efendi, listening to his calm, steady breath. His hand rested on her waist, as if even in sleep, he wanted to stay close.

She rose slightly, without breaking the embrace, and slipped on a sheer silk robe – as light and translucent as morning mist. The fabric caressed her skin like wind in a valley. She stepped to the window, looked at the dawn – and smiled.

Efendi opened his eyes and saw her silhouette in the morning glow. For a moment, he held his breath. In that instant, she didn’t seem like a woman of this world – but something between a dream and the earth, between a force of nature and warmth.

“I don’t know if I’m awake…” he whispered, “or still dreaming.”

Cindy returned to him, settling onto the bed slowly, without a word. Her fingers traced his cheek, his shoulder. Their foreheads touched. They didn’t speak – words would’ve been too much.

They embraced again, not just with arms – but with breath, with skin, with the shared feeling that to be close like this… was happiness.

Later, as the morning light grew brighter and birds began to chirp outside, Cindy and Efendi, wrapped in cozy robes, sat on the terrace of the hunting lodge. The air smelled of fresh coffee, hot flatbread, and honey gifted by the neighbor who ran the village bakery.

Cindy refilled Efendi’s cup, looking at him with that kind of tenderness only a woman confident in her love can carry.

“You know,” she said softly, “all my life I was afraid to get too close to someone. Afraid I’d lose myself. But with you… I don’t lose myself. I find myself.”

Efendi smiled, broke off a piece of bread, dipped it in honey, and offered it to her – like old couples do, without fuss, but with warmth, like a ritual.