Over the next month, Mehmet fell into a rhythm.
Mornings were for English class. Afternoons were for self‑study and the library. Evenings were for homework and, occasionally, for sitting in the common lounge with his classmates. Selen and Burak had become something like friends. They studied together, ate together, complained about the workload together. Ece was quieter, but she smiled when Mehmet made a joke, which felt like an achievement.
On Saturdays, he went to Rıza's office. They drank tea, read old texts, and talked about history. Rıza was teaching him to read Ottoman Turkish—slowly, painfully, character by character. Mehmet's progress was slow, but Rıza did not seem to mind.
"You're not a natural linguist," Rıza said one afternoon. "But you're persistent. That's more important."
One Saturday in late November, Mehmet brought the pendant.
He had not planned to. But as he was dressing that morning, the pendant had slipped out from under his shirt. He had looked at it in the mirror—the small fish carved from dark horn, the turquoise eye, the fine lines of its scales.
He had worn it for months without really thinking about it. The old man in the hospital courtyard had given it to him. He had never seen that man again. The pendant had never done anything overtly magical—no glowing, no floating, no strange voices. But it had always been warm. And it had always been there.
He decided to ask Rıza about it.
In the office, after tea, he pulled the pendant out from under his shirt. "I've had this for a while," he said. "I found it. Actually, someone gave it to me. Do you know what it is?"
Rıza leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. He did not reach out to touch it. He simply looked.
"May I?" he asked.
Mehmet lifted the cord over his head and handed it over.
Rıza held it to the window, turning it slowly. He examined the carving, the turquoise eye, the worn edges. Then he set it on the desk and reached for a book on his shelf.
"There's a record," he said, flipping through the pages. "A late Seljuk text, from the thirteenth century. A scholar named İbnü'l‑Müneccim wrote about certain objects that were said to have... symbolic power. He called them 'dream‑catchers.' One of them was a fish pendant."
He found the page and turned the book toward Mehmet. The text was in Ottoman Turkish, but Rıza translated.
"'The Fish Wandering in Dreams. It is said that one who wears this pendant may, in sleep or in waking reverie, enter a garden where a peach tree grows. The peaches of that tree strengthen the spirit, sharpen the mind, and prepare the body for trials to come. This is not magic, but the awakening of what already sleeps within. The fish is a reminder: the deepest waters hold the greatest truths.'"
Rıza closed the book. "There are dozens of such pendants in museums and private collections. Most are copies. The original is lost, if it ever existed. The story is more important than the object."
"So it's just a legend?"
"All history begins as legend." Rıza handed the pendant back. "Where did you get it?"
"An old man gave it to me. At a hospital in Erzurum. I never saw him again."
Rıza nodded slowly. "There are collectors who trade in such things. They give them to young people they think might be... receptive. It's harmless, mostly. A kind of game."
"Do you believe in the legend?"
Rıza was quiet for a long moment. "I believe that symbols have power. Not supernatural power. Cultural power. Psychological power. If you wear that pendant and it makes you feel stronger, more focused, then it is working. Not because of magic. Because of belief."
Mehmet put the pendant back around his neck. "That makes sense."
"Good." Rıza stood. "Now, let's get back to work. You were struggling with the letter 'kaf' in the Ottoman script."
---
Two weeks later, Mehmet told Rıza about the ring.
He had not planned to. But Rıza had mentioned a new exhibition at the Istanbul Archaeological Museum—Seljuk artifacts from the Konya region. Mehmet had gone to see it and had spent an hour staring at a bronze ring very similar to the one in his suitcase.
The next Saturday, he brought the ring in a small cloth bag.
"I found this," he said, placing it on Rıza's desk. "In a caravanserai near my village. East of Güzelyurt."
Rıza picked up the ring. His expression changed. The casual curiosity vanished, replaced by something sharper.
"This is not a replica," he said quietly. "This is genuine. Twelfth century, possibly earlier. The carnelian is real. The carving is Seljuk workmanship." He looked at Mehmet. "Do you understand what this means?"
"I think it's valuable."
"Valuable is an understatement. This is a museum piece. A national treasure." Rıza set the ring down carefully. "Where did you say you found it?"
Mehmet told him about the caravanserai. About the hidden chamber. About the chest, and the coin, and the cylinder, and the dagger.
Rıza listened without interrupting. When Mehmet finished, he leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses.
"You have three Seljuk artifacts in your dormitory room," he said slowly. "Potentially four, if the cylinder is what I think it is. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"
"No."
"Extraordinarily rare. The last major Seljuk find was in the 1970s, near Kayseri. Those artifacts are now in the Ankara Museum of Anatolian Civilizations." He rubbed his eyes. "You cannot keep these in a suitcase under your bed."
"What should I do?"
Rıza was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "You should let me help you. I have colleagues at the Ministry of Culture and Tourism. People I trust. We need to document these artifacts, authenticate them, and ensure they are properly preserved."
"Will they take them away?"
"Yes. They belong to the state. That is the law." Rıza's voice was firm but not unkind. "But you will be credited as the finder. And you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have contributed to your country's cultural heritage."
Mehmet thought about it. He had not expected this. He had imagined keeping the treasures hidden, using them somehow, finding the Hazine on his own. But Rıza was right. They were not his. They belonged to history.
"Okay," he said. "But I want to be part of the research. I want to understand what they are."
"Of course." Rıza smiled—warmly, for the first time. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
---
Over the next three weeks, Mehmet and Rıza met twice a week to study the artifacts.
The ring, they confirmed, was a signet ring from the Saltukid period, probably belonging to a minor noble or a high-ranking official. The symbol on the carnelian—a star within a circle—was a mark of the Saltukid court.
The coin was rarer: a silver dirham minted during the reign of Sultan Alâeddin Keykubad I, the greatest of the Seljuk sultans. The inscription on one side read, "Glory to the Sultan, the Great King, the Helper of the World and the Faith." The other side showed a stylized lion and sun.
The cylinder was the most mysterious. It was sealed at both ends with a wax that had not yet been identified. Rıza refused to open it without proper conservation equipment. "We could damage whatever is inside," he said. "We'll wait."
The dagger was beautiful and practical—a short blade, curved like a scimitar, with a lion's head pommel and turquoise inlays. Rıza identified it as a hançer, a type of dagger carried by Seljuk cavalry officers. "This was not ceremonial," he said. "This blade has been sharpened many times."
Mehmet learned something new at each meeting. Rıza was a patient teacher, explaining not just what the artifacts were, but how they fit into the larger story of the Seljuk Empire—the trade routes, the military campaigns, the court culture, the religious and philosophical ideas that had shaped Anatolia for centuries.
"You have a gift," Rıza said one afternoon, as they were packing the artifacts back into their boxes. "Not for finding things. For understanding them. That's rarer."
"I had a good teacher."
Rıza snorted. "Flattery. But I'll take it."
---
On the last Saturday before the winter break, Rıza made a phone call.
"I've spoken to my contacts at the Ministry," he said, setting down his phone. "They want to see the artifacts. We'll need to go to Ankara."
"When?"
"After the new year. I'll arrange everything. You'll miss a few days of classes, but I'll speak to your program director. This is important."
Mehmet nodded. "What will happen to them?"
"They'll be studied, cataloged, and eventually displayed. Probably in the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations. Possibly in a new Seljuk wing, if the Ministry approves the funding." Rıza paused. "And you'll be recognized. Properly."
"I don't care about recognition."
"I know. That's why you deserve it."
---
That evening, Mehmet sat in the common lounge with Selen and Burak. They were supposed to be studying for an English exam, but the conversation had drifted.
"You've been spending a lot of time with that professor," Selen said. "The historian."
"He's from Erzurum. We talk."
"About what?"
"History. Books. Nothing important."
Burak pushed his glasses up. "You're a strange guy, Mehmet. Most people come to medical school to study medicine. You come to study medicine and Ottoman Turkish."
"Seljuk Turkish," Mehmet corrected. "And it's not strange. It's just... curiosity."
Selen grinned. "Curiosity killed the cat."
"But satisfaction brought it back," Mehmet said.
They laughed, and for a moment, he forgot about the artifacts and the Ministry and the long road ahead. He was just a student, sitting with his friends, preparing for an exam.
It felt good.