His apartment was quiet, but not peaceful.Every second, the hum of another voice swirled beneath his thoughts like smoke under a closed door.
Emir stood in the middle of his kitchen, holding a glass of water that had long stopped trembling. His hands weren't shaking anymore. That had stopped an hour ago.
Now he was just... waiting.
Waiting for the voice to return.Or for it to stop.
Neither happened.
He sat at the table, staring at the blank page of a notebook.
— "You said you built a nation."
"I did."
— "Which one?"
"Yours."
His pen fell to the floor.
Silence again. But this time, it was thick with implication.
— "You're saying you're... Atatürk?"
"I did not say that. You did."
Emir laughed once—sharp and short.It sounded like disbelief. It was disbelief.And yet, his fingers hovered over the page again.
He found himself writing the word without thinking:Mustafa.
Then his hand moved again.Kemal.
And finally—hesitant, like the weight of the name strained the pen—Atatürk.
He stared at the ink, chest tight.
— "I'm not him."
"No. You are not."
"Then why me?"
"Because you asked the right question."
That stopped him.
"Most people ask to be more. You asked to understand.That's where it always begins."
He pushed back from the table, walking to the small bookshelf in his living room.
Dust. Folders. Old college books.One thing stood out: a biography."The Man Who Rebuilt a Nation." He'd never finished it.
He pulled it down. Flipped it open.Page 47.A quote.
"To see the future, we must first remember what was dreamed."
Emir's heart skipped.
— "Did you write this?"
"I lived it."
The air felt electric.
Not heavy. Not divine.Just... real.
Not possession. Not madness.Recognition.
He wasn't Atatürk.But something of Atatürk had moved.
Had remembered itself in him.
He turned the page in his notebook. Wrote a single line.
"If this is real… then what am I supposed to do?"
The answer came gently, without force.
"First, you listen.Then, you see.And only then—you act."