Only the wind answers, stoking the hundred fires higher, turning the Queen of Cities into a blacksmith's forge.
By noon, there were not one, not ten, but a hundred fires blooming across the city of Constantinople—Istanbul, as my father still calls it. From the wooden mansions of Bebek to the labyrinthine alleys of Fatih, the sky turned the color of a bruised apricot. Ash fell like grey snow on the Bosphorus. The minarets stood like silent witnesses, their shadows trembling in the heat. 100 Istanbul Yangin var Sahin Agam
They said it started in Unkapanı. Then the wind, that treacherous north wind, carried the sparks across the Golden Horn. Only the wind answers, stoking the hundred fires