"Is it?" he asked, his voice a jagged edge. "Because every time I breathe, I hear the sound of something snapping inside. This life... it's a graveyard of broken toasts."
"The glass is still whole, Poyraz," she whispered, covering his hand with hers. poyraz_karayelden_kac_kadeh_kirildi_poyraz_kara...
"" (How many glasses have been broken in my drunken heart...) "Is it
He didn't put the glass down. He simply looked into the amber liquid, took a breath, and prepared for the next storm. Because as long as the music played and Ayşegül was in the room, Poyraz Karayel would keep standing—broken, perhaps, but never finished. it's a graveyard of broken toasts
He gripped the glass tighter. Every mission he took to protect his son, Sinan, every lie he told Bahri Umman, every time he pretended to be a "bad man" to do a "good thing"—it was another crack in the glass. He felt like a walking mosaic of failures, held together by nothing but cheap tea and Shakespeare quotes.
He remembered the first time they danced to this song. He had stepped on her toes, making some absurd joke about how his feet were actually secret agents trying to sabotage the evening. She had laughed, that bright, bell-like sound that made the darkness of the Mafia world he inhabited feel like a distant bad dream.