The camera reached Konya twice: at dusk one August evening in 2018, as the lamps came on, and one bright October morning in 2025. What it showed: walls of pale stone; above them, the shrine's green-tiled dome; the wide square; and past the wall, Konya flat to a hazy edge.

What it did not show: the night of 17 December 1273, and the name the city gave it.

Rumi died in Konya that evening. They buried him beside his father; Christians and Jews joined the crowd that carried him through the streets. His friends did not call it death. They called it Şeb-i Arûs, the wedding night, union with the Beloved. A year later a tomb rose over him: the Green Tomb.

Every December, two weeks of ceremony end on the 17th. The semazens' black cloaks mean the grave, their tall hats the tombstone. They cast the black off; white opens beneath; one palm up to receive, one down to give. The story says the turning began in a market, to goldsmiths' hammers.

At 02:00, Konya is stone and silence on its plain. The dome keeps its green under the stars, a color for weddings and winter. The camera left with the day. The night stayed, as it has for seven and a half centuries, saying: not an ending. A door.