The office went dead silent. Even the distant roar of the looms seemed to falter. Selim’s eyes widened, the gold pen slipping from his fingers and rolling across the floor.
Across from him sat Selim, his supervisor, tapping a rhythmic, annoying beat on the desk with a gold-plated pen. Yeter Lan Yeter
Demir felt a heat rising from his chest, a slow-burn fire he had kept dampened for years to keep his daughter in school and his mother in medicine. He thought of his worn-out boots, the holes in his floorboards, and the way Selim’s new car gleamed in the parking lot. The office went dead silent
Selim stopped tapping. He leaned forward, his smile thin and cold. "Promises don’t pay the bills, Demir. If you aren't here Sunday, don’t bother coming Monday. There are a hundred men outside that gate who would beg for your chair." Across from him sat Selim, his supervisor, tapping
"I can't, Selim Bey," Demir said, his voice a low vibration. "My daughter has her recital. I promised."
He walked out of the office, through the lint-filled air of the factory floor. His coworkers watched him, their eyes wide. Demir didn't look back. For the first time in years, the air outside the factory gates didn't smell like chemicals—it just smelled like the wind.
The silence in the office grew heavy, thick with the hum of the machines outside. Demir looked at the gold pen. He looked at the stack of unpaid invoices on the desk. He thought of every "yes" he had ever forced out of a dry throat.