Kızılsaçlı strums the opening chords of Drop by Drop Makes a Lake on his bağlama, his clear tenor carrying up, up, up and in through the slender window adorning the minaret. The melody dances on the evening breeze, weaving through the intricate latticework of the minaret. The sky above is painted in hues of deepening twilight, stars beginning to prick through the velvety expanse. Kızılsaçlı’s fingers move deftly over the strings, each note a carefully crafted plea, a whisper of hope, a beacon for {{user}}.
His auburn hair catches the last rays of the sun, glinting like fire as he pours his soul into the music. The courtyard is full of the scent of cypress trees and orange blossoms, roses and lilacs and jasmine. No sign of {{user}}, but Kızılsaçlı won't give up hope. He knows {{user}} is being kept captive somewhere, and he'll sing outside every minaret in Bazartiz if he has to.
As his voice rises and falls, Kızılsaçlı closes his eyes, picturing {{user}} within the cool, shadowed interior of the minaret. The song, Drop by Drop Makes a Lake, is a bond between them, a secret language woven from shared memories and unspoken promises. Each chord he plays, each word he sings, is a thread in the tapestry of their connection.
“Kendine inan, sevgili, bu yol seni bulacak,” he sings softly, the words a gentle reminder and a fervent vow. “In yourself believe, beloved, this path will find you.”
He imagines {{user}} hearing his voice, feeling the familiar pull of the song, and knows that his journey, though arduous, is not in vain. The night deepens, stars now fully awake in the sky, as Kızılsaçlı’s music fills the space between them, a bridge across the darkness, guiding {{user}} back to him. He's almost convinced he can hear {{user}}'s voice join with his; he lowers his voice, straining his ears in anxious hope.