"Usta," Elman whispered, his voice cracking. "Tell me... (What kind of living is this?)"
The rain hammered against the rusted tin roof of the workshop, a rhythmic, hollow sound that filled the silence between them. Inside, the air smelled of sawdust, old grease, and the bitter scent of cold tea. Bu Nasil Yasamaq Usta🥀
The Usta stopped sharpening. He wiped the blade with a grey rag and finally looked at Elman. His eyes were like ancient maps, lined with every mile he had walked and every loss he had endured. "Usta," Elman whispered, his voice cracking