The Final Blueprint

He paused, as if searching for the right words. «My father, Mehmet, always said that the Bosphorus is not just a strait, it’s the soul of Istanbul, the connection between Europe and Asia, between the past and the future. He taught me about business from childhood, not by cramming numbers, but by teaching me to see opportunities. He told me about the intricacies of trading spices and carpets, about the art of making deals at the Grand Bazaar.» He chuckled.

«My mother, Ayşe, taught me to appreciate beauty and art, took me to museums, and told me legends about the Ottoman sultans.»

Kenan leaned back, looking at the starry sky. «My father always said,» he repeated, as if recalling a favorite saying, «Business is not just numbers and graphs. It is, first and foremost, people. Understanding their needs, the ability to see opportunities that others miss. He taught me to listen, not just to speak. He said that silence is sometimes more valuable than the most eloquent speeches. He, by the way, loved to quote Rumi – „Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.“»

«And my mother… my mother taught me to see beauty in the little things. In a sunset, in a flower, in a stranger’s smile. She said that beauty will save the world, but only if we learn to notice it.»

João finished playing, and in the ensuing silence, only the sound of the surf was heard. Kenan took a sip of wine, and the fire reflected in his dark eyes.

«I was always ambitious,» he continued, lowering his voice. «Since childhood, I dreamed of creating something of my own, something that would change the world for the better. So after university, I left Istanbul. I wanted to see the world, gain experience, find my niche. I worked in different countries, was involved in various projects. There were ups and downs, successes and failures. But I never gave up. You know, we have a saying in Turkey – «Damlaya damlaya göl olur’ – drop by drop, a lake is formed. I believed in my dream, and it led me here, to Portugal.»

«Why Portugal exactly?» Aurora asked, and her tone betrayed genuine interest.

Kenan smiled, and sparks lit up in his eyes. «There’s something special here. Some kind of magic that attracts. Maybe it’s the saudade, the longing for something lost that hangs in the air. Maybe it’s the people, so open and hospitable. Maybe it’s the atmosphere itself – a blend of ancient history and modern life. Here I feel at home. Here I found inspiration and the opportunity to realize my ideas.» He fell silent, as if pondering his words.

«And also… here I met you.» He took her hand in his and gently kissed the back of it. «You are my Portugal, Aurora.»

Aurora felt her cheeks flush with a light blush. She wasn’t used to such frank confessions. But there was a sincerity in his words that touched her to the core. She looked into his eyes and saw in them the reflection of the stars and the glimmers of the fire. She felt warm and cozy next to him, but at the same time, she felt a slight anxiety. She wasn’t used to trusting people, and she was afraid to open up to him completely.

«What’s next?» she asked quietly, meaning his plans for the future, but investing something more into the question.

Kenan looked her in the eyes, as if trying to read her thoughts. «Next… next I want to build my own little paradise here, in Portugal. I want to create a company that will help people realize their dreams, give them the opportunity to create, not just survive. I want to build a house where we will live together and raise children, speaking to them in both Turkish and Portuguese. I want to live a long and happy life with you, Aurora.»

João started playing again, this time a Fado melody filled with sadness and longing. Kenan stood up and offered Aurora his hand.

«Shall we dance?» he asked with a warm smile.

Aurora hesitated. She didn’t like to dance, especially in public. The scar on her arm began to ache from the excitement. But at that moment, she wanted to forget about everything and just enjoy the moment. She took his hand, feeling the warmth of his palm, and they began to dance under the starry sky, to the sound of the guitar and the surf.

In his embrace, she felt safe, but she knew that sooner or later the shadows of the past would catch up with them both.

Chapter 2

Shadows in the Blue Sunset

Fatigue gripped Aurora like an iron corset. Tossing the pencil aside, she leaned back in her chair, letting the tension drain from her shoulders. Outside the window, Sintra was lulling itself in the cradle of the approaching night. Crimson strokes of sunset spread across the sky like watercolor on wet paper, reflecting in the windows of neighboring houses. The shadows stretched out, taking on bizarre shapes, resembling clawed paws clinging to tiled roofs. During these hours, when the sun was sinking into the boundless Atlantic Ocean, memories of the past crawled out of the hidden corners of her memory, clinging to her with a special, painful force.

But today she resisted desperately. Today was marked by a warm light, a reflection of last night with Kenan. That evening had become for her not just a respite, but a breath of fresh, intoxicating air that filled her lungs after a long stay in a stuffy room.

Kenan had come to Sintra as soon as he could break free from the embrace of work, as he often did, with a generous smile and a bottle of exquisite red wine, which, like an artifact, he carefully selected himself, guided by criteria known only to him. The wind, playful and restless, played in her chestnut hair, fluttered the hem of her light dress, and Kenan seemed to catch every glimmer of the sunset in her eyes, every fleeting gesture.

He talked about his new business plans, about the dizzying prospects of expanding the company, about an unquenchable thirst to create something revolutionary that would change the world. His eyes burned when he spoke about technology, about code, about the future he seemed to see in every detail. Aurora listened, fascinated. His unbridled passion, determination, and self-confidence evoked her admiration and quiet envy.

In response, overcoming internal resistance, she shared with him her worries about the social project – the complex of affordable housing for low-income families. She spoke about the moral dilemma tearing her apart from within: how to come to terms with the fact that, having achieved success and recognition, she was powerless to help all those in need, unable to eradicate the injustice and inequality she had felt so painfully since childhood.

Kenan listened attentively, without interrupting, absorbing her every word, asking thoughtful questions, trying to understand the depth of her torment. His support, tact, and sincere sympathy were priceless to her, like a balm on a bleeding wound.

Gradually, as if under the influence of the wine and the trusting atmosphere, the conversation touched upon her past, her childhood. Kenan, without pressuring and showing delicacy, gently but persistently asked about the origin of the scar that adorned her arm. She felt everything inside her tighten, as painful memories rose from the bottom of her soul, threatening to overwhelm her. But, to her own surprise, she was able to tell him a little more than usual.

Aurora sighed, and the memories washed over her with renewed force. It was as if she was back in that apartment where she had spent her childhood. And in her ears sounded her own, childhood voice, which she seemed to hear anew:

«Mama… why is it so cold here? Not from a draft, but… inside. Why is it always so uncomfortable here? As if no one lives here, just spent the night… And when will you clean up? You promised you’d do at least something so it wouldn’t be so… empty. But you just watched TV. You didn’t even look at me…»

She fell silent, as if frightened by her own words. She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat and continued, quieter, almost in a whisper:

«And then I realized… that this isn’t a home. It’s just a place where we sleep. And eat when there’s something. And a real home I never had. And never will.»

She ran her hand over her cheek, wiping away an invisible tear. The words, torn from the depths of her memory, caused her physical pain. She remembered how often she had repeated these words as a child, trying to get through to her mother, but she remained indifferent to her suffering.

She noticed how his thick, dark eyebrows furrowed, how sympathy and genuine pain were reflected in his deep, brown eyes. He cautiously, as if afraid to hurt her, touched her scar with his warm, strong fingers. His touch was gentle and soothing. «This is a part of you, Aurora,» he whispered, looking her straight in the eyes, «But you must not let this past define your present, and even more so – dictate your future.»

They talked until late at night, laughing at funny stories, joking, drinking wine, enjoying each other’s company.

"…And then, can you imagine, this cheeky pigeon stole my croissant right out of my hands! I didn’t even have time to react!» Aurora said, laughing.

«No way! Right out of your hands?» Kenan asked in surprise, smiling at her.

«I swear! I was standing in line at the café, looking forward to my morning croissant, and then this feathered bandit flies up, snatches it, and flies away! I almost cried from frustration and annoyance,» Aurora continued, gesturing with her hands how the pigeon snatched the croissant.

Kenan added with a smirk: «Maybe it was a gourmet pigeon? He just had refined taste.»

«More like a kleptomaniac pigeon! All he does is steal,» Aurora retorted.

«And remember how we tried to make paella on a picnic?» Kenan suddenly recalled.

«Oh, that was unforgettable!» Aurora exclaimed, rolling her eyes.

«We decided we were cool chefs and could make paella over a campfire. As a result, the rice burned, the seafood was overcooked, and we mixed up the spices,» Kenan said, laughing.

«But the smoke! You could probably see us from a kilometer away,» Aurora added.

«And the worst thing was that we forgot the water! We had to ask some tourists for it,» Kenan finished the story.

«And after that, we decided it was better to just buy food from a restaurant,» Aurora concluded.

They laughed again, remembering that failed picnic. The wine flowed freely, and the conversations became more and more frank and heartfelt.

Kenan was nearby, as always, ready to listen, support, and embrace. And this gave her a sense of strength, self-confidence, so necessary for her in moments of spiritual weakness. He was her anchor, reliably holding her in reality, not allowing her to sink into the abyss of painful memories.

Today, after a hard and stressful working day, the memories of that evening warmed her soul like a ray of sun on a stormy day. She distinctly remembered the warmth of his hands, his caring gaze, his encouraging words. She knew, felt with all her heart, that Kenan would always be there, ready to come to her aid, to support her in a difficult moment. And this knowledge gave her strength, instilled hope for the best.

Aurora, gathering her thoughts, resolutely took a pencil in her hands and unrolled a clean sheet of paper. She was faced with the task of developing the concept for a new, complex, but insanely interesting project. And she knew she could handle it.

An image was born in her head. Through the shadows of the blue sunset, the contours of a future masterpiece began to emerge.

Inspiration, like a timid fawn, stepping silently, peered out from beyond the horizon. Aurora, usually practical and collected, now felt more like a medium than an architect.

In her hand, like a magic wand, the familiar «Koh-i-Noor» pencil sparkled with its faceted graphite – a pencil she hadn’t parted with since architecture college, which had survived all-nighters and dozens of missed deadlines with her. It was this pencil that was supposed to bring her most cherished dreams to life.

On a sheet of snow-white Whatman paper, like a ghost from the fog, the first lines began to appear – the contours of a house, a house that would become not just standard housing, but a manifesto, a hymn to hope, a place where wounded souls would find healing.

She closed her eyes, and pictures flashed in her imagination, like frames from a film shot by life itself: spacious rooms filled with soft light pouring through panoramic windows. Not just windows, but portals to another world – a world where there is no place for fear and loneliness, a world where nature caresses the eye and gives peace.

She saw how the sun’s rays played on the walls, painted in warm, earthy tones reminiscent of her native Portugal, its rocky shores and flowering valleys. In every house – a small winter garden, a nod to the famous «Hanging Gardens» of Babylon, only instead of exotic plants – unpretentious herbs and flowers accessible to everyone.

A cozy kitchen smelling of fresh pastries and strong coffee, where the whole family gathers around a large wooden table, sharing news and dreams. A living room with a fireplace lined with local stone – not just for warmth, but as a symbol of the hearth, a nod to ancient rituals when fire was the center of life and communication.

But this was not just a beautiful, architecturally verified project. It was an ethical project, built on the principles of accessibility, environmental friendliness, and safety, a kind of response to the challenges of the time.

She used recycled wood, local stone, and energy-saving double-glazed windows. The project included a rainwater collection system for garden irrigation and solar panels on the roof to reduce dependence on traditional energy sources. The houses were designed taking into account the needs of people with disabilities, with wide doorways, ramps, and special elevators.

She was drawing not just separate houses, but a whole community, a kind of «kibbutz» of the 21st century. In her imagination, a playground with swings and slides came to life with the ringing laughter of children who had forgotten their troubles and problems. A common garden where residents grow vegetables and fruits together, exchange experiences, and help each other. Workshops where they could engage in creativity and crafts, discover new talents, and earn a living. In the center – a community center with a library, a cinema, and a small gym, a place where people could communicate, learn, and develop.

She dreamed that this project would become a manifesto of a new architecture – an architecture that serves people, and not vice versa, an architecture that creates not just buildings, but a comfortable and harmonious living environment. That it would inspire other architects to create affordable and quality housing for all those in need, that it would become a symbol of hope and faith in a better future.

But then, like a bolt from the blue, something else flashed in her consciousness – her father’s face, blurred, like an old photograph, almost erased by relentless time, but no less painful for that. A memory from childhood surfaced, when she found an old photograph of her father hidden between the pages of a thick cookbook. The picture showed a young man with dark hair and radiant eyes, smiling straight at the camera. Aurora, who was about seven years old at the time, couldn’t take her eyes off the photograph. It seemed to her that she was seeing her father for the first time.

Clutching the photo in her small palm, she ran to her mother. Elena was doing laundry in the yard, her face red from fatigue and anger.

«Mama, who is this?» Aurora asked timidly, holding out the photograph.

Elena snatched the picture from her hands. Her gaze darkened, her face contorted into a grimace of rage.

«Where did you get this?» she hissed, clenching the photograph in her fist.

Aurora stepped back in fear. «I… I found it in a book…»

Elena didn’t answer. She tore the photograph into small pieces, throwing them into the dust.

«Never! Do you hear? Never ask me about him again!» she shouted, her voice trembling with anger. «He is dead to us! He betrayed us! Forget about him! He doesn’t exist!»

Aurora cried, frightened by her mother’s fury. She didn’t understand what was so terrible about this man in the photograph that even mentioning him caused such a storm of emotions.

Since then, her father’s name became taboo in their house. Elena did everything to erase him from Aurora’s memory. She removed all his things, destroyed all the photographs, and forbade even thinking about him.

Aurora threw the pencil aside as if it had burned her hand. Inspiration immediately, like a frightened bird, took off and flew away in an unknown direction.

She tried to calm down, take a deep breath, but the anger only intensified, turning into uncontrollable rage. She felt overwhelmed by a wave of hatred and contempt, that she was drowning in an ocean of pain and despair. She didn’t want to know anything about him, didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to forgive him. It was enough for her that he had once existed, to remember the bitterness of betrayal.

He had died for her many years ago, back when she first realized that she had no father. And let it remain that way. She would not give him a chance to be resurrected in her memory, she would not allow him to destroy her life again.

There was a quiet but persistent knock on the door. Aurora flinched as if from a gunshot, her thoughts scattering in disorder like shards of a broken mirror. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest like a caged bird.

– Aurora, it’s me, – she heard Kenan’s soft, soothing voice, like a balm on a wounded soul. – May I come in? You seem… not yourself today…

Aurora looked at the door as if it were a lifeline. Kenan – her support, her rock, the person who saw the real her, even when she herself tried to hide behind a mask of indifference. Maybe with him she could cope with this nightmare, maybe he would help her find the answer to the question that had been tormenting her for many years. But what if he learned the truth about her past? What if he saw that little, frightened girl she once was? Could he accept her for who she was?

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she whispered:

– Come in.

Chapter 3

The House I Will Build

The Lisbon sun, like a generous artist, had already painted the sky in a palette of gold and orange when Aurora, squinting slightly, parked her elegant but modest Fiat 500 by the fence of the construction site. Her project, the embodiment of her dream of affordable housing, was meant to be not just a structure, but a symbol of hope, a breath of fresh air for those who so lacked a place in the sun.

She got out of the car, inhaling the air steeped in the dust of the construction site, the smell of fresh concrete, and the barely perceptible note of metal, like the scent of a dream not yet born. This smell… She liked this chaos, this creative disorder. It reminded her of the process of creating something new, something significant.

Aurora walked past rows of tool containers and headed towards the site office – a small but cozy space where the «heroes» of the construction site were already waiting for her.

Inside, it was hot, mixed with the hum of working tools and the perpetual sound of ringing phones. At the table, cluttered with blueprints and cups of drunk coffee, a unique microclimate reigned – a mixture of work enthusiasm, Portuguese leisurely pace, and Carlos’s signature sarcasm.

Three men were seated at the table: João, the foreman, whose face, like an old map, was etched with wrinkles from sun and wind, testifying to his experience and silent wisdom. Miguel, a young engineer, with burning eyes and the energy of a volcano, ready to move mountains (or at least build a couple of floors). And Carlos – an experienced builder, whose jokes were as sharp as utility knife blades and always hit the mark.

«Bom dia, Aurora! You’re late, which means lunch is coming soon!» João greeted her, rising heavily from the table. His hands, as if molded from concrete itself, betrayed his profession.

«Bom dia, João,» Aurora replied, shaking his strong hand.

«So, what’s the situation? Everything going according to plan? Like a… grandfather clock?» Aurora asked, glancing at the blueprints.

«Almost, dear,» Carlos smirked, his eyes twinkling mischievously. «If you don’t count yesterday’s downpour turning the site into a copy of the Venetian Lagoon, and Miguel running out of coffee. A mess, you see.»

Miguel immediately bristled: «That’s not funny, Carlos! Without coffee, I’m like… like an inexperienced builder without blueprints!»

«Well, sorry, my young padawan,» Carlos shrugged, raising an eyebrow. «I thought for an engineer the main thing was knowledge of the laws of physics, not a dependence on a stimulating liquid. But apparently, I’m behind the times.»

Aurora, trying to hide a smile, glanced at Miguel. She knew that beneath Carlos’s sarcasm lay not only professionalism but also a kind heart.

«Alright, let’s get down to business,» Aurora said, sitting at the table and pushing her long chestnut hair from her face. «João, how’s the foundation coming along? Didn’t it drown completely?»

«The foundation is almost ready, senhorita,» João replied, his voice seemingly polished by wind and time. «We start pouring tomorrow. Unless, of course, God decides to repeat yesterday’s flood.»

«Excellent,» said Aurora. «Miguel, what about the electrical wiring? Missing a spark?»

«Minor delays,» Miguel replied, his face slightly pale. «The cable delivery is delayed, as if the supplier decided to take a cruise instead of working. I ordered a new one, but…»

«But apparently, he also prefers to relax on the beach,» Carlos chimed in, not missing an opportunity. «Or he’s trying to invent a way to transmit electricity without cables, like Nikola Tesla.»

Miguel threw a pleading look at Carlos.

Aurora sighed, but a smile touched her lips again. «Try to resolve the issue as quickly as possible, Miguel. We need to keep to the schedule. Unless, of course, the construction site decides to turn into Atlantis.»

«I’m doing everything in my power,» Miguel replied. «But I’m not Harry Potter, to wave a wand and fix everything!»

«No, Miguel,» Carlos interjected again, his eyes sparkling. «You’re just an engineer without coffee… Like Batman without the Batmobile!»

Miguel barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

Aurora sighed again, but this time it was from laughter. «Carlos, please, be a bit more serious. Your sense of humor isn’t always appropriate.»

«Perhaps,» Carlos replied, spreading his hands. «But at least I always lift your spirits, especially when we have to deal with sewage problems. Now that’s a real circus, not a construction site!»

Aurora rolled her eyes. «Let’s better discuss the sewage problems. I hear there’s something ’interesting’ there too.»

Carlos grinned. «Now we’re talking! There, we might need not just coffee, but a couple of strong Brazilian dancers to handle those pipes!»

«Oh, Carlos,» Aurora sighed, rubbing her temples as if trying to squeeze out a drop of calm, «if humor solved supply blockages, I’d have given you not just the «Best Plumber of the Year’ award long ago, but sponsored a European tour for you and your jokes! But unfortunately, in reality, everything is much more prosaic.» She smirked, remembering how Carlos once tried to persuade a malfunctioning concrete mixer with a mother-in-law joke.

Carlos, seemingly bulletproof against gloom, winked at her with his signature, slightly sly look. «Well then, it’s time for my second talent – persuasion bordering on blackmail! I’ll talk to the suppliers. Maybe a cup of real Portuguese coffee and a couple of well-chosen jokes, what do you think, about blondes? – will help them suddenly remember our urgent order. Maybe their memory got knocked out?»

«Carlos, if you say one word about blondes, I’ll personally make you paint this entire complex pink,» Aurora threatened, but her voice held more affection than anger. «Better promise them a free consultation on fixing their eternally leaky taps. That will be much more effective. And for heaven’s sake, no jokes about politicians!»

She turned her gaze to the huge blueprints spread on the table, trying to concentrate on the architectural details, but the noise and bustle of the construction site, this symphonic orchestra of hammers, drills, and workers’ shouts, constantly distracted her.