He realized that the fire which had kept him alive was the very same fire that had consumed his brother’s life. They were two candles, and one had melted away so the other could keep the darkness at bay.

High on the mountain, the wind turned into a howling beast. A sudden avalanche swept through the narrow pass. Yusuf was buried beneath a wall of white silence. Kerem, driven by a frantic, burning love, dug with his bare hands until his fingernails were gone and his blood stained the snow.

In a small village tucked into the rugged folds of the Anatolian heartland, there lived two brothers, and Yusuf . They were not twins by birth, but they were twins by soul. Where Yusuf’s hands were stained with the dark soil of the fields, Kerem’s were dusted with the white flour of the mill. They were the two pillars of their widowed mother’s house.

The villagers used to say, "If Kerem cuts his finger, Yusuf’s hand begins to bleed."

One harsh winter, a Great Frost descended. The wolves grew bold, and the village’s grain stores began to fail. To save their family and the village, the brothers decided to trek across the treacherous mountain pass to the neighboring valley to bring back supplies.

"İki kardeş yan yana..." (Two brothers side by side...) "Yandı gönlüm, ömrüm." (My heart is burned, my life is spent.)

Yusuf survived, but he lived the rest of his days as a shadow. Every time he looked at the empty space beside him, he would whisper the lament that eventually became a song in the valley:

When he finally reached Yusuf, his brother was pale and fading. Kerem wrapped his own cloak around him, lying down in the snow to press his chest against Yusuf’s, trying to pour his own warmth—his very life—into his brother’s cooling heart.