The yellow leaves were falling down on this depressive autumn of 61’. The coup guys in the country, generals, had already killed 3 ministers of the conservative party. People were waiting the republicans for governing the country again. Osman was really sad about the situation among coffee-shops. The two groups had been separated deeply and did not want to see each other. He was fed up with all the guys dealing with politics, nevertheless he found a power in himself to merge the groups again. Salih had never been at home after his father tried to catch him. There had been already 3 months. So, Osman wanted to do something for peace, for Salih to come back at home again. So, at the end, Salih would have seen how things were changed positively for his village and his father.

Three days after republicans took the power of the country again, Osman was delightful about it. He was pushing his cart with more energy and joy. He walked down to the Station. He made a couple of jokes about the youngsters and wanted them to show up at Daquille’s all together. He said there was nothing to worry about. Their party took the power recently. So, they could build the relationships with those grudgy old guys. They had all the aces in their hands. Nothing to lose. Just a try. For the sake of God. Maybe for Salih. He would be proud of his friends and also proud of his father.

They were marching down to Daquille’s with a pure desire of finding a solution to this conflict. They passed the bazaar which is spreaded all the way through Jurnal Street. Sellers were screaming to sell their tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplants, pumpkins, eggs, fruits and other green vegetables. At the end of the street, there was no sellers anymore and Osman could see Daquille, sitting on a wooden chair. When they reached to the coffee-shop, Osman saluted everyone as the group’s spokesman. However, he could not get any response. So, he turned back to Daquille trying to understand what happened here. Daquille, meanwhile, was holding a cigarette with the untapped ashes. All the men focused to the home which was just in front of the coffee-shop. They neither seemed surprised nor anxious, just in a state of calmness. Osman walked around those frozen man, even he tried to wake them up. He slapped the wealthy farmer, he kicked Daquille, he spitted on the dirty tea-maker of the coffee-house. No response. Then he grabbed one of the tea glasses which has no tea in it, and sit down a chair. Young men murmured among themselves and in a sudden they ran away. He was too old for thinking elaborately. However, he forced himself to answer the questions occupied his mind.

Where was he? “At Daquille’s”, he responded calmly. Why did these young gentlemen run away from here? No response. He was holding the thin tea-glass firmly. A smooth sea-breeze touched his wet face, causing him to creep. He saw the white door of the house just in front of him was half-opened. That house, in the past, was belong to a wealthy man who killed his own wife and children for the sake of deep morals of the society. Then, it was an empty ruins where truck drivers used to stop by and suck each others’ dicks until military forces turned this house into the base for the state-of-siege. Osman heard a smashing voice of tea-glass, afterwards felt a pain in his hand. That moment all of the men inside the coffee-shop woke up from their short time hibernation and started to rush around for stopping Osman’s hand bleeding. He felt no pain while running to the white door of this evil house. A soldier appeared near the entrance of the house and he could barely see what’s going inside. He held the arms of the soldier and pulled through himself to get in the house with an unsuccessful attempt. “Keep your hands off, old pal. You’d better just go away before i smashed your little son’s face in.” For a second time, he thought that it was the last words he had heard. Now, the same ceremony was being performed by the other coffee-shop’s men at Daquille’s, through the cookie man’s house.