To anyone else, it was just a classic arabesque song on a mobile phone. But to Yavuz, that specific ringtone was a sacred thread connecting him to his past.

The heavy, sorrowful voice of Müslüm Baba filled the quiet shop. Yavuz reached for his pocket, expecting it to be another customer asking about a broken remote control. He pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello?" he said, his voice flat.

The afternoon sun was casting long, heavy shadows across the small repair shop where Yavuz spent his days fixing broken radios and ancient television sets. The air smelled of burnt solder and cold tea. Yavuz was a man of few words, carrying a quiet sadness that mirrored the worn-out streets of his neighborhood.

There was a long silence on the other end, filled only with the faint static of a long-distance connection. Yavuz was about to hang up when he heard a soft, trembling voice. "Yavuz? Is that still you?"

His heart skipped a beat. The soldering iron slipped from his hand, clattering onto the metal table. He knew that voice instantly, even after a decade of silence. "Nilüfer?" he whispered, his voice cracking.

"I didn't think you would still have the same number," she said, her voice shaking with emotion. "I didn't think you'd answer."

"I never changed it," Yavuz replied, looking at the glowing screen of his phone. "And I never changed my ringtone. I was waiting for Müslüm Baba to bring you back."

But life had other plans. Nilüfer’s family moved to another city, forced by debts and desperate circumstances. In an era before instant messaging and social media, they slowly lost touch. The letters stopped coming, and the phone numbers changed. All Yavuz had left was a faded photograph and the heavy, comforting weight of Müslüm Gürses's music.