The Meeting Morning pries itself through Istanbul’s glass and minarets—a blue-gold light, soft and sleepless.Sleep claimed me late, but the city’s hum—street vendors, ferry horns, muttered prayers—is relentless. The scent of Tarmo’s cologne, mint and pistachio from sweets untouched, clings in corners and to my skin. Istanbul’s lesson: nobody gives up their pieces—only moves them…