Leyla, with her eyes the dark, glossy black of the region’s prized grapes.
Aslan sat on the edge of the stone fountain, his fingers absentmindedly tapping a rapid, heavy rhythm against the wood of his bağlama. Dum-da-da-dum, dum-da-da-dum.
Aslan took a grape and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. It was cool, smooth, and bursting with life. He picked up his plectrum again. This time, he didn't tap lightly. He struck the strings with intent.
A sudden burst of laughter pulled him from his trance. His grandfather, Dede Yusuf, hobbled out from the shade of the pomegranate tree, holding a massive cluster of dark, plump grapes.