When the song ended, Sehriyar put his guitar down. The room remained silent for a long moment, the lyrics still hanging in the air like woodsmoke.
Abbas smiled, a sad but peaceful expression. "I used to think I owned the garden I planted," Abbas said over the music. "I fought neighbors over inches of soil. But look at me now. The garden is still there, green and blooming, and I am just a guest passing through it." Sehriyar Musayev Dunya Senin Dunya Menim
As the first chords resonated, an elderly man named Abbas paused at the doorway. He looked at his calloused hands—hands that had built houses, held children, and eventually buried a wife. He walked in and sat across from a young student, Elvin, who was buried in a textbook, looking stressed and hurried. "Listen," Abbas whispered, gesturing toward Sehriyar. When the song ended, Sehriyar put his guitar down
He began to play. The melody was "Dunya Senin, Dunya Menim" (The World is Yours, the World is Mine). "I used to think I owned the garden
The two strangers—the one at the start of his journey and the one near the end—shared a glass of tea in silence. The music stripped away the labels of 'old' and 'young,' 'rich' and 'poor.' In the vibration of the strings, they were simply two souls sharing a temporary home.