VIII

MIKAYLA

. . .

"Soniye, you're so talented," I hear the soft voice of my nephew say as he sits beside me and watches me sketching a face.

I hum, my squinted eyes focused on the canvas. The face of a man is what I am sketching, not wishing to put on many shades. It is actually my nephew's homework and I am doing it.

"How do you do that?" He asks after a pause. I hear the sound of a wrapper being torn.

The silence in my room is too much. So much so that the sound of graphite rubbing against the rough sheet can be heard easily. I like it.

"I dunno," the words come out under my breath, barely audible.

He giggles and swiftly brings the piece of chocolate to my mouth. I don't deny having it silently. The solid bar melts on my tongue, taste fusing into my calm senses and it crawls down my throat.

"I want to sketch like you. Can I do it?"

"Why do you ask me? Ask your Uncle. After all, he's your teacher."

"Uncle said you get jealous!"

He burst into laughter as he held his stomach. My hand halts