There were six of us: the master, the apprentices and the white elephant. We built everything together. Mosques, bridges, madrasas, ravanserais, alms houses, aqueducts...
I think about Istanbul every day. People must be walking now across the courtyards of the mosques not knowing, not seeing. They would rather assume that the buildings around them had been there since the time of Noah. They were not. We raised them: Muslims and Christians, craftsmen and galley slaves, humans and animals, day upon day.
But Istanbul is a city of easy forgettings. Things are written in water over there, except the works of my master, which are written in stone.
Beneath one stone, I buried a secret. Much time has gone by, but it must still be there, waiting to be discovered.
I wonder if anyone will ever find it.
If they do, will they understand?
