Then the stream ended.
This wasn't a documentary. It was a first-person stream. And the body he was borrowing was that of a lean, restless man in his late forties, wearing a worn leather cap and a felt cloak. Osman. stream the founder: ottoman
He clicked.
Aras was back in his dorm, the laptop screen black, his face wet with tears he didn't remember shedding. On his desk, his notes had rearranged themselves. Or rather, he had rearranged them while unconscious. A single line was written in a steady, pre-Ottoman hand—Osman's hand: Then the stream ended