HALCYON
Count Back From a Hundred
Every night he counts down. At ninety-one, she is waiting.
Coming December 13, 2026.
Every night, Professor Batu Aydemir counts backward from a hundred, the way his father taught him. Every night, at ninety-one, he stops, and wakes on the Aegean: in a stone house with a fig tree in the courtyard, beside a woman who laughs as though she has always known him.
In Istanbul he has a marriage gone quiet, a wife who drinks her coffee standing up, and a body that wakes at three every morning. In Gümüşlük he has a boat, the wind, and Ceyla.
One of these lives is a dream. Batu doesn't know which. But Halcyon, the company that promises to give us back our nights, does.
Set in a near-future Turkey where sleeplessness has become as common as poverty, Halcyon is a psychological dystopia without violence, police, or villains. There is only a wristband, a speaker, and a gentle voice that asks every morning: What did you dream? No one is forced to wear it. Everyone signs up willingly.
Moving from Istanbul to the Aegean coast to Miami, this is a novel about grief, marriage, memory, and the quiet ways comfort teaches us to consent.
Consent is the thing most easily forgotten by the one who gave it.
For readers of Kazuo Ishiguro, Margaret Atwood, and Emily St. John Mandel.
In Istanbul he has a marriage gone quiet, a wife who drinks her coffee standing up, and a body that wakes at three every morning. In Gümüşlük he has a boat, the wind, and Ceyla.
One of these lives is a dream. Batu does not know which. But the company that promises to give us back our nights, Halcyon, does.
Set in a near-future Türkiye where sleeplessness has become as ordinary as poverty, Halcyon is a psychological dystopia without violence, police, or villains. There is only a wristband, a speaker, and a voice that gently asks each morning: What did you dream? No one is forced to wear it. Everyone signs up voluntarily.
Stretching from Istanbul to the Aegean coast and on to Miami, this novel is about grief, marriage, memory, and how comfort quietly teaches us to consent.
Consent is the thing most easily forgotten by the one who gives it.
For readers of Kazuo Ishiguro, Margaret Atwood, and Emily St. John Mandel.