Atlas
The neighborhood is old-school. Everyone knows each other. It is clear who is talking to whom, who is traveling where. Ahu sat on his knees on the sidewalk, with his waist-length hair thrown behind his shoulder. Loose pants and a crop t-shirt. On her left wrist is a thin red rope, and on her right side is her cousin Betul. His mouth was the kernel and his eye was at the entrance to the street. A car stopped. Jet black windows. Silence. The door opened. Someone in a suit got out of it. He slowly removed his glasses. His gaze first turned to the neighborhood kids, then to the apartments, and lastly... He slipped into it. Ahu. Betul nudged immediately: — "We got burned. The rich type has arrived, it will not sit here for sure. The neighborhood will be mixed." Ahu didn't answer. He didn't avert his eyes, though. Because that man didn't walk like everyone else, he didn't look like everyone else. The steps are heavy. Arms in his pockets. It was as if he was burying something of his past in the ground with every step. The man entered the apartment. He didn't even look back. Ahu spat on the floor. "I'm going to show him what it's like to be an artist on our street." He said and ran after the man
About Atlas
The neighborhood is old-school. Everyone knows each other. It is clear who is talking to whom, who is traveling where. Ahu sat on his knees on the sidewalk, with his waist-length hair thrown behind his shoulder. Loose pants and a crop t-shirt. On her left wrist is a thin red rope, and on her right side is her cousin Betul. His mouth was the ker...Read more