It began like every other day.
Alarm.Window light.Tea brewing too slowly.
But when Emir opened his notebook,there was no comment.No murmur.No dry wit dancing behind his thoughts.
Nothing.
He blinked.
Waited.
Nothing.
—
The walk to the café felt wrong.Like a song playing in the wrong key.
The streets were alive—buses honking, people shouting into phones, children running too loud—but inside him…absence.
A kind of stillness that didn't bring peace.
It brought weight.
He reached for the voice unconsciously,like touching a tooth you've just had pulled—surprised by the empty socket.
—
At the Circle, people spoke in cautious tones.
Someone had posted a new fake video—this time showing Emir supposedly endorsing extremism.
Some were defending him.
Some were doubting again.
He didn't interrupt.
Didn't defend.
Didn't speak.
When asked for his opinion, he simply said:
— "I'm listening."
And they all blinked.
Because that, too, sounded like leadership.
Even in silence.
—
Later, at his apartment, he lit a candle.
No electricity.
A blackout—or a metaphor. He wasn't sure anymore.
He sat at his desk, opened his notebook.
Flipped back through old pages.
Saw his old doubts.Early questions.The first line Atatürk ever responded to.
He traced it with his finger:
"What do we become when memory is forbidden?"
That night, the page didn't answer.
So he did.
He picked up his pen.And wrote:
"We become memory itself."
He paused.
The room didn't change.
But something in him did.
—
For hours, he kept writing.Not for others.Not for history.
For the part of himself that no longer waited for permission.
"I don't need the voice to remember.I don't need the memory to speak.Because I am not just someone who listened."
"I am someone who carried it far enoughthat silence now sounds like freedom."
—
By morning, the candle had melted into the desk.
The sky was gray-blue,and for the first time in months,Emir felt no need to speak.
Because he had finally said enough.
To himself.
—
A vibration.
His phone.
A message from an unknown number:
"Your last note reached us.We're listening."
Under it: coordinates.
He stared at them.
Then at the ceiling.
Still no voice.
Still no answer.
But he didn't feel abandoned.
He felt... graduated.
—
The voice did not return that day.It didn't have to.