One September evening, while walking along the Besiktas pier, I sat on a bench to rest and stared at the sea. After a while, an elderly man came and asked if he could sit. I nodded. His clean clothes and neat hair set him apart from others his age, though he wasn’t very old, maybe 60 or 70 at most.

He glanced at me from the corner of his eye and asked my name. I told him, also mentioning that I was sitting here enjoying the view. He nodded and said he was a master too.

I gave a faint smirk and softly said, “A master? You must be a university or art professor.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m not a university or art professor or anything like that.”
“Then why do people call you master?”
He said nothing.
“Where are you from?”
“You haven’t answered my question yet. Go on, I’ll give my answer later.”
“Tabriz.”
“What brings you here?”
“Work, and occasionally life.”
“Anything else?”
“Thought.”
“About what?”
“A mix of past, present, future, reality, and dreams.”
“Any results?”
“Not necessarily. It’s like a form of entertainment. I enter from one end of the world and exit from the other. No one can disturb me. I’m inside my own world, with myself.”

The old man smiled and nodded.

A few moments passed in silence. The sound of waves hitting the pier caught my eyes’ attention.

He held half a simit in his hands. Occasionally, he broke a piece off and dropped it to the ground. I wasn’t sure if he had eaten half or had dropped it earlier. Probably for the pigeons. But now there were no pigeons. The cool air brushed my face, and I closed my eyes.

Death does not concern us, because as long as we exist, death is not here. And when it does come, we no longer exist.
- Epicurus

(To be continued)