He remembered the laughter of a friend long gone, the warmth of a fire on a cold night, and the spiritual yearning he had buried under the daily grind of his work. Every note of the bağlama (Turkish lute) felt like a hammer striking the chisel of his soul, carving away the numbness.

“I am looking for a love... an affection that comes to my mind moment by moment,” the lyrics pleaded.

From that day on, Miran didn't just carve wood; he carved stories of the soul, waiting for that "an be an" (moment by moment) connection with the world around him.

In a village tucked between the rugged peaks of Anatolia, where the wind carried the scent of wild thyme, lived a woodcarver named Miran. For years, Miran’s life had been a series of repeating patterns—the grain of the oak, the rise of the sun, and the deep, heavy silence of his workshop. He was a man in a "deep sleep," though his eyes were wide open.