Suddenly, Selim wasn't in a cold studio apartment anymore. He closed his eyes and saw his cousins locking arms in a halay line. He smelled the charred lamb on the grill and felt the heat of a summer sun that never seemed to set. But then, a knock at the door.

The file finished downloading with a satisfying ding . He hit play.

"No," Müller whispered, his foot tapping rhythmically against the floorboard. "Turn it up. It makes the walls feel less heavy."

The rhythmic pulse of the bass was the first thing Selim felt as he clicked the flickering link:

It was 2:00 AM in a cramped apartment in Berlin. Selim, a homesick student, had been scouring the web for a specific sound—the sound of a village wedding in central Anatolia, the kind where the dust rises so high from the dancing that you can’t see your own feet.