Her çiçeğin bir mevsimi, her kitabın bir zamanı vardır. Haziranın tadını yeni hikâyelerle çıkarın.
I take his hand. My friend, the only friend I’ve ever had. I wish I had more in my weary soul to offer him in return for his kindness, but this is all I can muster.
‘Children die every day,’ I say. ‘How many grieving mothers did the war create? They don’t all rise up and take revenge. What makes your grief so special? What difference does it make?’
This morning, I thought I would see my father again at last, but instead I stand outside his tomb without the consolation of a single embrace.
This was my time: I didn’t want to share it with anyone else, not even him.