Kerem, a Hatay native and Turkish friend, drove while I gazed out the passenger window. My thoughts blurred the line between reality and reverie. His voice cut through the mix of modern and traditional Turkish music that danced around our ears with two simple questions: “Can I show you a place? Do we have time?” My wandering mind stilled as I snapped back to the reality we shared, answering quickly, without much thought, expecting only a brief stop at the market. Contrary to months prior, the glistening heat of the Hatayan sun bathed us in its warmth as we traveled. Although our bodies were now warm, our hearts persisted in their frozen state.

Five months had passed since the earthquake, which seemed to have kept us bound in time as the world continued onward without us. The car’s tires came to a stop on the rubble-filled roads. As the music subsided with the engine, the only noise left was the heavy machinery across the street. My previous assumption of a quick market stop dissipated as Kerem exited the car and beckoned me to follow, leading the way to what had once been a building. It became apparent that our feet had met not just another destroyed building, but the edge of his memories. Our bodies stood above, balanced not only by the remains of rubble but also by the weight of Kerem’s history.

Peering down into what had once been, his first words drifted out: “I try to come here every day.” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket as he began to share more. Each exhale of smoke seemed to release the grief bound to his words. Instead of looking beneath us, we lifted our eyes, picturing the building as it once stood. Sobering to the harsh reality of standing above multiple unmarked graves, I glanced at my shoes, shifting my weight as if to lessen the pressure of my body. Beneath the boulders and dusted concrete, belongings without owners still remained: a small stuffed animal—once purple, now blackened—broken chair legs, shards of glass chandeliers, a wooden jewelry box. Some items were recognizable, while others remained only fragments, mysteries of lives once lived.

Kerem looked at me as my eyes tried to keep up with my thoughts, connecting each belonging beneath us to its former owner. “I gifted her many things. Every time I come, I look to see if I can find something that belonged to her.” He spoke with emotion, but not from it—his words carried a particular strength that stitched each sentence together. Many years before her body caved beneath the walls of her home as she slept; Kerem found his home not between walls but within her presence. He vocally considered himself one of the fortunate ones, sharing his life from early on with the woman he had planned to spend eternity with. Exhaling smoke, he broke the silence with a laugh: “If she saw us standing here together now, she would be so angry with me. She was very jealous.” My own laugh joined his, drowning out the noisy machinery tearing down what still remained in the background. We couldn’t help but imagine her standing on the second-floor balcony, glaring down at us, shouting and demanding, “Bu kim ya?” One memory led to another. The debris beneath our feet transformed from rubble to grass; the empty sky overhead became a home again; silence gave way to the lively sounds of the Turkish streets; the air was once again filled with the aroma of local bakeries, replacing the taste of rubble in our throats. We were again blinded by the vibrant cultural buildings surrounding us rather than the gray, torn reality before us. As Kerem spoke, it was as if the rest of the world ceased moving onward momentarily and listened as we shared in his memories together.

Before what is now tragically remembered as the deadliest event in present-day Turkey, her birthday had been just two weeks away—a day once meant to celebrate life, now transformed into a day of mourning. The laughter faded. “The hope I hold onto is knowing she was cold. Did you know, if your body reaches a certain temperature, you go numb? I don’t think she had time to wake before she sensed the weight of her world collapsing on her,” Kerem said in a quieter tone, his voice blending with the wind as it brushed past, leaving the lingering sense that nature itself was listening to life resurrected.

Fewer words were spoken. We let silence speak, knowing some emotions transcend language. All that surrounded us was destruction and the painful reminder, which we witnessed slowly being carried away by the clamor of heavy machinery loading up the past.

One lesson learned is that grief never truly fades; only the pain of absence grows more forceful in how it is managed. As the tires carried us away, my gaze remained fixed on the past while Kerem continued forward. I shifted my focus to my friend, in awe of the quiet strength beside me. He swallowed his pain to spare others from tasting it.

His story is one among thousands.