The last two weeks before the university entrance exam passed like water through fingers. Mehmet studied, slept, ate, and studied again. The peaches had done their work: his mind was sharp, his memory nearly perfect, his stamina seemingly endless. But he did not rely on them alone. He drilled practice tests until the patterns of questions became second nature. He reviewed every mistake, every ambiguous answer, every trick the exam makers had hidden in the previous years' questions.
His mother watched him from her chair by the window. She was walking better now – short distances, with a cane – but her left hand still trembled. She did not interrupt him when he studied. She simply sat, a silent presence, her eyes following him as he moved from textbook to notebook to computer.
His father limped through the barn and the garden, feeding the cow, tending the small vegetable patch. He spoke little, but every evening he placed a glass of tea on Mehmet's desk without being asked. It was his way of saying I see you. I am proud.
Belkis, his sister, brought him drawings. Stick figures of the family under a yellow sun. A rocket ship flying to a purple planet. A fish with a crown. Mehmet pinned them to the wall above his desk, a small gallery of hope.
---
The exam was held on a Sunday in June.
Erzurum was warm for once, the sun bright in a cloudless sky. Mehmet woke at 4:00 AM, ate a light breakfast his mother insisted on making despite his protests, and walked to the village minibus. Uncle Davut was waiting, the engine running.
"Today's the day," Davut said, his gaunt face creased in a rare smile. "You'll make us all proud."
Mehmet nodded, not trusting his voice. The pendant was warm against his chest. The ring, the coin, and the cylinder – the three keys – were hidden beneath the floorboard in his room. He had considered bringing them, but the pendant had whispered No. They would be a distraction. And they would draw attention you do not want.
He left them behind.
---
The exam hall was a large building near the city center, surrounded by parents and students and the low hum of anxiety. Mehmet showed his ID, found his seat, and waited.
When the test began, the world fell away.
He moved through the questions like a blade through water – smoothly, precisely, without resistance. Mathematics, geometry, physics, chemistry, biology. The knowledge was there, each formula and fact ready at his fingertips. The peaches had given him speed and clarity, but it was the months of disciplined study that had built the foundation. The fruit had only unlocked what he had already planted.
He finished each section with time to spare. He reviewed his answers, changed a few, trusted his instincts on others. When the final bell rang, he set down his pencil and exhaled.
It's done.
---
The weeks between the exam and the results were the longest of his life.
He tried to distract himself. He helped his father in the garden. He walked with his mother to the edge of the village, her cane tapping against the dirt road. He read novels – Russian, Turkish, Japanese – and watched the stars through his window at night.
But his mind kept returning to the exam. The questions he might have missed. The answers he might have changed. The thin line between success and failure.
Zeynep called him twice a week. She was anxious too, her usual calm replaced by a nervous energy that made her talk faster than normal. They commiserated, speculated, tried to predict their scores. Neither succeeded.
The pendant was quiet. The peach tree in the Mekan-ı Beyna had grown three new fruits – small, pale gold, not yet ripe – but Mehmet did not enter the space. He wanted to be fully present in the ordinary world, at least until the results arrived.
---
The results were released on a Tuesday morning.
Mehmet checked his phone at 10:00 AM, his hands shaking. The website was slow, overloaded with millions of students doing the same thing. He refreshed. Waited. Refreshed again.
Then the screen loaded.
Sayısal (Numerical) puanı: 560.78
Türkiye derecesi: 12.
Twelfth in the country.
He stared at the number. He had expected top 100, maybe top 50 if the peaches had truly done their work. But twelfth? That was beyond anything he had dreamed.
His mother was in the kitchen, making tea. He walked to her, his legs unsteady, and showed her the phone.
She looked at the screen. Her eyes widened. Then she began to cry – silent tears that rolled down her weathered cheeks.
"My son," she whispered. "My son."
His father came in from the garden, saw his wife crying, saw Mehmet's face, and understood. He said nothing. He simply placed a hand on Mehmet's shoulder and squeezed. The grip was strong, despite his bad leg.
---
The calls started within the hour.
First, a representative from Atatürk University in Erzurum. Congratulations. A full scholarship to their medical school if he chose to stay. Mehmet thanked them politely and said he would consider it.
Then Istanbul University – Çapa. A prestigious state program, but no scholarship beyond the standard tuition waiver for top students. They offered a spot in their English Medicine program. Mehmet said he would think about it.
Then Koç University. Private, well-funded, with a modern medical school. A full scholarship, plus a monthly stipend of 25,000 TL. A representative spoke to him for fifteen minutes, explaining their research opportunities, their hospital affiliations, their small class sizes.
Then Yeditepe University. Similar offer. Slightly lower stipend. A warm, persuasive recruiter who talked about their new simulation center and partnerships with European hospitals.
Mehmet took notes, thanked each caller, and waited.
---
The call from Medipol University came in the late afternoon.
His father answered the phone – an old habit, as the house phone was still the primary contact number. Mehmet heard his father's voice change, becoming more formal, more respectful.
"Yes, sir. Yes. I will get him."
Hasan covered the receiver and looked at Mehmet. "It's the Vice Rector of Medipol University. He wants to speak to you."
Mehmet took the phone. "Hello?"
A warm, confident voice responded. "Mehmet Aydemir? This is Professor Altan Demir, Vice Rector of Istanbul Medipol University. First, let me congratulate you on your extraordinary achievement. Twelfth in the country – that is remarkable, especially coming from a village in Erzurum. You should be very proud."
"Thank you, sir."
"I will not waste your time with small talk. Medipol has recently established a new program – the International School of Medicine, or UTİF. It is an English-medium medical program designed for the top students in the country. We accept only ten students per year. Ten. And I am calling to offer you one of those seats."
Mehmet's heart beat faster. "Tell me more."
The Vice Rector spoke for ten minutes. He described a curriculum that integrated clinical training from the first year, opportunities for double majors in Engineering or Molecular Biology, guaranteed research positions in Medipol's affiliated hospitals, and a pathway to international electives in the United States and Europe.
"But the most important part," Professor Demir said, "is the genius class concept. You will be surrounded by nine other students who are as driven and capable as you are. You will push each other. You will collaborate. You will become the next generation of medical researchers and leaders."
He paused. "And we will support you fully. Full tuition waiver. A monthly scholarship of 50,000 TL. A private dormitory room – single occupancy. Three meals a day, meal card included. Laptop and tablet provided. Language preparation – English and, if you wish, a second foreign language – fully funded. And a research stipend starting in your second year."
Fifty thousand lira per month. A private room. Full board. Mehmet did the math in his head. It was more than his father earned in a year.
"I also want you to know," the Vice Rector continued, "that we have followed your story. Your mother's stroke. Your family's circumstances. Medipol is not just offering you an education. We are offering you a future in which you can help her, and others like her. Our neurology department is one of the best in the country. Our rehabilitation center is world-class."
Mehmet's throat tightened. "I need some time to think."
"Of course. But I will tell you honestly – no other university will offer you what we are offering. Not Koç. Not Yeditepe. Not Istanbul University. We have designed this program specifically for students like you. The top of the top. The future leaders of Turkish medicine."
"I understand. Thank you, Professor Demir."
"Take two days. My direct line is on your phone now. Call me with your decision."
He hung up. His parents were watching him, their faces anxious.
"What did he say?" his mother asked.
Mehmet sat down slowly. "He offered me a place in a special program. Ten students in the whole country. Fifty thousand lira a month. A private room. Everything."
His father's eyes widened. "Fifty thousand?"
"For living expenses. Tuition is separate – fully covered."
Hatice crossed herself – a gesture Mehmet had not seen in years. "Allah'ım, şükürler olsun."
---
He called Zeynep that evening. She had scored 34th in the country – lower than her practice tests, but still extraordinary. She had already accepted an offer from Istanbul University's medical school, a full scholarship plus a modest stipend.
"Medipol's UTİF program?" she said. "I've heard of it. It's new, but they've put serious money behind it. The facilities are insane. And ten students – you'd be in a class of geniuses."
"Do you think I should take it?"
"Mehmet, you'd be crazy not to. Fifty thousand a month? A private room in Istanbul? You could send half of that to your family and still live better than most students. Plus, the education – double major options, international electives. If you want to become the kind of doctor who can actually change things, that's the place."
She paused. "And it's in Istanbul. The history, the culture, the hospitals – everything is there."
Mehmet thought about the map, hidden beneath his floorboard. The keys. The Hazine. Istanbul was the final site – the seventh key, the heart of the network.
"You're right," he said. "I'll accept."
---
He called Professor Demir the next morning.
"I accept," he said. "I will come to Medipol."
The Vice Rector's voice was warm with satisfaction. "Excellent. I will have the admissions office send you the contract electronically. Read it carefully, sign it, and return it. We will also send you a welcome package with information about housing, orientation, and the start of the semester."
"Thank you, sir."
"No, Mehmet. Thank you. You have chosen to become part of something special. I promise you will not regret it."
---
The summer passed in a blur of preparation.
Mehmet helped his father repair the barn roof, using the gold peach's strength to lift beams that would have taken three men. He walked with his mother every evening, watching her gain confidence with each step. He taught Belkis multiplication tables and read her stories about astronauts and explorers.
He also returned to the Mekan-ı Beyna.
The three new fruits had ripened – pale gold, each the size of a walnut. He ate them one by one, and each brought a small gift: better night vision, a sharper sense of smell, the ability to hold his breath for nearly five minutes. Not dramatic, but useful. The tree was growing slowly, its gifts becoming more subtle as his foundation strengthened.
The black peach still hung on the highest branch, untouched. It seemed larger now, darker, its surface swirling with shadows that moved when he looked directly at them.
Not yet, the pendant whispered. After Istanbul. After you have seen the city.
He packed his belongings into two suitcases – clothes, books, the wooden box containing the three keys and the Seljuk dagger. He wrapped the box carefully and placed it at the bottom of the larger suitcase. The pendant remained around his neck, never removed.
---
The day before his departure, the village held a small farewell.
Uncle Davut brought his minibus and decorated it with ribbons. The other villagers – the ones who had stayed, the ones who had not migrated to Adana or Istanbul – gathered in the square. There was tea and baklava, handshakes and backslaps, the kind of communal warmth that Mehmet had only read about in books.
His father stood at the edge of the crowd, his cane planted firmly, watching. He did not smile, but his eyes were bright.
His mother hugged him for a long time. "Write to us," she said. "Call every week."
"I will."
"Eat well. Don't stay up too late studying."
"I won't."
"And Mehmet?" She pulled back, looking into his eyes. "Whatever you are becoming – do not hide from it. Be proud. Be strong. Be kind."
He kissed her forehead. "I will, Mom."
Belkis clung to his leg, crying. He knelt and wiped her tears with his thumb.
"You're going to be the smartest girl in your class," he said. "And when I come back for winter break, you're going to teach me everything you learned."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He climbed into the minibus. Uncle Davut started the engine. The village shrank behind him – the houses, the mosque, the barn where a single cow stood chewing cud. His mother raised her hand. His father stood straight, ignoring the pain in his leg.
Then they were gone, and the road to Istanbul stretched ahead.