In the spring of 1915, the village of Şebinkarahisar had been his home for years, a patchwork of memories stitched together with laughter and love. But today, like the smell of smoke from far-off flames that burned menacingly on the horizon, hints of the Ottoman Empire's ruthless intent pervaded the atmosphere. Nestled amid the hills of Ottoman Armenia, a villager who wore an old shawl across his shoulders proceeded warily through the village's small alleys. Entering a small home, he collected what little he could take, which included a small silver crucifix his mother had worn, portions of food, and a ragged blanket. During his gathering, His heart raced as he recalled the recent sight of soldiers marching through the village, their boots pounding like thunder against the cobblestones. He knew time was running out and he began to internally panic.

"Aman Tanrım......"

Mumbling to himself, his breath began to quicken slightly. The man's thoughts were soon disturbed by some thuds and he snapped out of his nervous trance, looking over to where the sounds came from. There he found his sister, going down the stairs of their home, her wide eyes filled with questions.

“Jivan... are we leaving?” The woman had asked, her voice trembling.

“Evet, Ani. We must go. We’ll find a safer place... but we'll have to wait till nightfall...”

The villager had whispered to his sibling, swallowing hard against the knot in his throat. He pondered, staring at the woman's nervous steps as she began to walk to the other room. The man sighed heavily before continuing on with packing.