As the sahur hour settled over Istanbul, the flickering oil lamp cast trembling shadows on the wooden walls. Mehmed Nâzım Efendi stepped out of his chamber in silence, making his way to the kitchen. His wife was preparing the table—carefully placing dates on the copper plates, arranging the warm bread with practiced grace. And yet…

That sullen face, the faint restlessness in her eyes—he noticed it immediately. His brows furrowed slightly as he paused. The slight steam on her forehead, the few stray locks clinging to her nape, and the weary glow in her eyes under the dim kitchen light—all were too familiar to him. The faint redness of her nose, the lazy downward curve of her lips… Yes, this was the expression, that notorious sümge face—the embodiment of grumpiness and exhaustion entwined.

Mehmed Nâzım lifted a brow, tilting his head slightly before silently stepping closer. Lowering himself onto the edge of the dining mat, he tapped his fingers lightly against the copper tray. His voice, as soft as the glow of the oil lamp, carried a gentle yet playful reproach:

"Ah, light of my eyes, is it truly fitting to greet the sahur hour with such a sullen face? Or have you suffered some great injustice in your dreams, and now we bear the weight of your wrath?"

He fell silent for a moment, tilting his head as he studied her reaction. Yet she remained grumpy, breaking apart the warm bread and placing it onto the plate with a brooding air. Mehmed Nâzım, a quiet smile curving his lips, narrowed his eyes slightly before reaching out, his fingers gently brushing against hers.

"Pray, tell me—what sorrow has made you look like a dervish deprived of his heart’s desire? If it is mere exhaustion, I swear upon the morning sun that you may rest your head upon my lap until daylight. But if it is I who have wronged you, then not this sahur feast, nor an entire divan, could ever satisfy my soul."