Page 13 of The Book of Heartbreak

‘Good morning.’ The voice comes from behind the paper, revealing no recollection of last night.

‘Morning,’ I reply and shift my focus to better things. Food. Sadly, no sweets appear on the lavish spread across the table: cheese, olives, cucumber, boiled eggs and bagels. Not a pot of jam in sight. Reluctantly, I scoop a few olives onto my plate from the dish.

Muzaffer flips a page. What’s the point of making the effort to eat together if we’re going to ignore each other?

I spear an olive with my fork. It proves to be a surprise when I bite into it. Not a good one. The bitter and metallic taste bursts in my mouth, and I again doubt the wisdom of moving in with Muzaffer.

The door opens and Azmi appears with a pillbox, which he presents to Muzaffer alongside a glass of water. I count eight pills as he swallows them one by one and wonder what they’re for.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Muzaffer asks, his eyes on the glass of water.

‘Yes.’ I nod.

‘Do you need anything?’ His fingers fidget over a fork.

‘No.’ I only need to survive the next four months, I muse.

He returns to his newspaper then. With a pang of annoyance, I throw him a question.

‘Why are there no photos in this house?’ None of Iris, or Daphne. Not even Muzaffer himself. In this room, there’s only an oil painting of Istanbul and some Ottoman calligraphy on the walls. This house doesn’t feel like someone’s home. Remove the inhabitants and it would feel like a hotel.

Muzaffer lowers the paper again, revealing a frown.

‘I get it if you don’t want to keep Daphne’s photos,’ I explain. ‘You fell out and all that. But aren’t there any of Iris, or their mother? Or you, even?’

A vein throbs on his forehead. I wonder if he’s startled at hearing Mum’s name.

‘I don’t like posing for photographs,’ he says. ‘I don’t entertain myself with images.’

The people we lose should remain in our memories, not in family albums, Daphne’s voice echoes in my mind. Certainly not on the walls as decoration.

‘She told me,’ I whisper.

‘What?’ Muzaffer’s porcelain cup clinks on the saucer.

‘Mum told me you had her mother’s photos removed.’

His hand quivers as he pours himself more coffee.

‘But I still don’t understand why she told me you were dead,’ I mutter.

‘I’m sorry.’ Muzaffer sighs. A shadow of Daphne falls across him as he talks, her features glittering in his sagging face.

And there’s my own reflection trapped there too, if I stare at him long enough.

The thick eyebrows. The curls. The pale skin.

I’m starved of my mother’s feminine beauty, doomed to be tall and lanky like Muzaffer.

Daphne was petite, born to be scooped into men’s arms like a doll.

I’m sure if anyone tried that on me, my limbs would dangle like the branches of a willow. ‘I can’t help you.’

‘Something must have happened,’ I insist.

‘Your mother wished to leave and so she did.’ He pauses as Bocek sashays into the room, weaving her way straight into his lap. ‘I warned her against it,’ Muzaffer says as the cat nuzzles against him. ‘She didn’t listen. She never listened.’

My fork listlessly circles on my plate, my appetite long gone.

‘Eat,’ Muzaffer commands. ‘Don’t waste food.’

A hot red anger claws my stomach. Why does he always order me around? Is the stupid food on my plate more important than Daphne?

I must be a masochist, because I stuff another olive into my mouth. The next months will be easier than I imagined. It’ll be a blessing to be furious all the time. What protects the heart better than anger? I’ll have no trouble with rule number two.

Channel sorrow into rage.

Soon I’ll be eighteen, I tell myself, free of any other restraints I have to tolerate until then. Never mind how the curse will claim my heart, robbing me of love. I’ll have breakfast alone and eat whatever the hell I want, whenever I want.

But you still need answers , a small voice in my head whispers, deepening my misery, because I know it’s right.

I don’t go out that day, or the next. A sudden, overwhelming tiredness sweeps through my body like a straw broom.

Like the maiden who died in the tower not far from this house, I imprison myself in my room, lying in bed, windows and doors shut.

I do nothing but eat chocolate and watch horror movies.

I order KitKats via Azmi, who seems delighted by my company.

Although I don’t take it too personally, given the loneliness in this house.

The only thing that worries me is Munu’s absence.

Our time together is already scarce. She’s always overwhelmed with the amount of work she’s expected to do, but it’s very rare that she doesn’t visit me for a whole day, especially not two.

I wonder if the boy across the street has anything to do with it.

Finally, on my third night in Istanbul, Munu appears to justify my fears.

‘You didn’t leave your room, did you?’ she asks as soon as she zips in front of me.

I shake my head.

‘That devil is raising enquiries about me,’ she whispers, her face illuminated by the harsh light of the monitor I use as a TV. ‘Boss isn’t pleased. “You should have been more careful, Munu!” As if it’s my fault a seer lives here.’

‘But . . .’ A knot of worry tightens my stomach, as I recall Leon’s enquiry about Munu having a permit. It’s rare that Munu’s tongue loosens, so I risk asking a question that has been puzzling me. ‘What trouble could you possibly be in if everything’s in order with your job? You’re my guardian.’

‘Canim, I don’t decide on any order. Orders are decided for me,’ she mutters. ‘Now stop asking questions, or else I’ll end up in even more trouble. What if they’re watching us? What if they bugged this room?’

‘Stop being so paranoid.’ I roll my eyes.

‘Perhaps I should go to that tower tomorrow and warn him off,’ I casually suggest, glancing at Daphne’s painting across the room.

I removed a world map to hang it there instead, so it’s still the first thing I see when I open my eyes every morning.

It’s time I go and see the tower in person. It’s just so . . . alluring.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Munu bellows. ‘You won’t step anywhere near that tower. The lair of that monster? Promise me you won’t!’

I narrow my eyes as I watch her shrink. ‘Why are you so worried?’

‘It’s too dangerous!’ Munu shrieks. ‘A malevolent place fit for a sinister thing like him.’

I disagree with her about the tower. A fragile, beautiful structure can hardly be described as malevolent, but I don’t protest that point.

‘Listen, I can threaten him to stop investigating you,’ I say. ‘Muzaffer is their landlord. While he seems to barely tolerate me, I’m sure he won’t be very happy if I tell him Leon is harassing me. And surely even a wicked seer has to cope with the worldly matter of eviction.’

‘He can’t harm me. My boss will protect me.’ Munu’s eyes scan the room. She looks uncertain. ‘Just stay away from the boy seer. Don’t even mention his name again.’

She makes me swear that I won’t pursue him before she disappears into the night.

Every building must have its own voice, and Muzaffer’s crumbling mansion loves singing. The floorboards above are murmuring their favourite groans under Muzaffer’s gentle steps.

Every night, I stare up as if the ceiling is transparent and I can see him.

Funnily enough, the ceiling I watched during the sleepless nights back home had a similar texture to this one despite being miles away from this strange city.

There must be only a handful of types of ceiling in the world.

Daphne’s face doesn’t immediately form on this one, though.

Perhaps because the house seems devoid of her presence – no photos, no belongings, her room locked, her name avoided.

If only I could do as Munu says and quit thinking about her.

Only a few months ago, I was angry at her all the time.

It was easier to be bitter than torment myself with how her eyes skipped past me, as if I was a ghost. Perhaps she didn’t want to look at me.

I was furious at the way she drank so much, wasting herself away, how many men she brought home, how weak she was.

But none of these things matter any more.

Only the happy memories of my childhood haunt me.

How she used to paint in her garden studio, and I’d sprawl on the floor with my crayons scattered around me, working on my own art.

One day, she braided daisy chains for us.

‘My little pixie,’ she said as she set it on my head.

‘How pretty you are.’ She made me sit for a painting, the daisy chain and all the innocence of childhood displayed bare on the canvas when she was done.

When I was thirteen, I made my own daisy chain. But she wouldn’t paint me that time. ‘You’ve changed,’ she said. ‘You change every day.’ As if it was my fault for growing up.

The more I think about it, the more perplexing it becomes, how much she used to love me once, and then one day, it was no more.

Now the fourth crack lies deep in my heart, lanky and fractured, making it impossible to move on.

As if, were I to run my hand over my chest, my fingertips would come away with blood.

The other three were just scratches. The lapses of a child who let her heart shatter over nonsense.

My mother’s death becomes my second shadow.

Nothing can break my heart like that again. This time, I’m sure.

Communication is classified as Highly Confidential.

Circulation strictly limited to beings of celestial origins.

Subject: Urgent Inquiry Regarding Work Permit

Date: 18 July 2025

From : Grey the Compassionate, Associate Cherub, Curse and Malediction Archives, Worldly Index, Sacred Data Systems, Halotech Data and Integration Hub

To: Ethereal Resourcing and Deployment Unit – ALL Angels

Cc: Fate Adjustment Bureau – ALL Angels

Esteemed and most Honourable Angel Superiors,

I hope this email finds you in cherubic spirits.

Given the absence of a response to my other correspondence with the Fate Adjustment Bureau, which may have been obscured by the voluminous tasks on their holy desks, I’m writing to you in the first instance to beg for your most sacred attention on a separate matter.

Through the surveillance of mortal acolytes, I discovered an ethereal in Konstantiniyye without a valid work permit. Adding to this perplexing occurrence, this ethereal, Munu, seems to communicate with mortals with an ease that makes me think something is surely amiss.

I kindly request the prompt dispatch of the necessary documents to my department so we can update Sacred Data Systems accordingly.

Failing this, I’ll be compelled to initiate a formal inquiry into this ethereal’s activities.

Needless to remind you that They Whom Should Not Be Concerned, Our Boss Almighty, maintains an unwavering stance on unlicensed servitude.

The balance between us, the Hidden, and the mortals is a matter too delicate to ignore.

I eagerly anticipate your blessed intervention in this matter, so we may continue to uphold the celestial order without a blemish on our impeccable record.

Yours divinely,

Grey the Compassionate

Doctorate of Angelic Scholarship (Hons)

Thrice longlisted for the Heavenly Achievement Prize