Behind the Books

It’s hard for me to define the genre of this book, because when I sat down to write it, the only thing I cared about was its meaning.

At first glance, someone might think this is the story of a woman torn between the pain of the unknown and the hope she’s clinging to.

But the real story isn’t that one.

The real story is the one that stays silent.

The one breathing behind her.

It’s about what remains unseen — and yet is right here.

It’s about those whose words are the silence within us.

And those who remain silent — who stand quietly in the background — they are the ones who go deepest.

A quiet mystery flows through the pages of this book, from cover to cover.

It doesn’t scream — it touches.

And it makes you pause.

To reflect. On meaning. On life. On yourself. On who we are… and whether we really are.

And although the whole story follows the fate of one woman, the book was written for someone else.

For the character without a name.

Without a voice.

But with the deepest meaning of all.

The truth is, it was incredibly hard for me to finish this book.

Not because I didn’t know what to write —

but because her tears were running down my own face.

This is a story written through the eyes of someone who has always lived between two worlds.

Someone whose path ended before they were ever born.

And maybe one day I’ll tell that story too… maybe.

I’m someone who has always searched for meaning and valued depth.

And that’s what I wanted to give to this novel.

Not just a stack of paper — but a genre with no name and a soul that echoes.

A novel that doesn’t just sit on a shelf, but reaches into the heart.

And today, it’s incredibly hard for me to pick up the pen again and begin the next one.

Because the next story… carries even more weight.

And even more strength.

And finally, I’ll say just this:

I’m someone who believes that nothing is truly invisible — not when we dare to look.

That everything is within us, and we are everything.

That life stretches far beyond death.