"Thank you, Elmar," she whispered. "I needed to hear that too."

He finally dialed the number. It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, she picked up. "Hello?" her voice was soft, hesitant.

Elmar took a deep breath, the lyrics of the song echoing in his mind. "I don’t want to take much of your time," he said, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. "I just... I needed to say the things I didn't say when you walked away. I needed you to icaze ver —to allow me this one last moment."

The rain in Baku didn’t fall; it drifted like a gray veil over the Caspian Sea. Elmar stood by the window of a quiet café in Ichari Sheher, watching the cobblestones glisten. In his hand, he gripped his phone, the screen glowing with a name he hadn't called in three months: Leyla .

He pressed play on a rough demo he’d been working on. Aydin Sani’s voice filled his headphones— “İcaze ver...” (Allow me...). The lyrics mirrored his own heart: a plea for permission to speak, to breathe, to say goodbye properly instead of vanishing like smoke.