The day passed without incident.
But not without notice.
Emir had walked openly.And no one had stopped him.No denial.No applause.
Just a silence so thick it felt like the sky had blinked.
And now, night had come.
He lay in bed, fully clothed.Notebook by his side.Eyes half-open, but his mind already drifting.
He didn't fall asleep.
He slipped.
—
Ankara, 1933, post-nutuk
A large hall.Chairs half-stacked.Confetti still clinging to the corners.
Atatürk stood alone, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened.He looked... tired. But not defeated.
And this time, he saw Emir.
— "Oh. You again," he said, lighting a cigarette.— "Don't look so reverent. I just shouted poetry to a crowd that's already forgotten the commas."
Emir stepped forward.
— "Why do you keep showing me this moment?"
Atatürk exhaled smoke slowly.
— "Because this was the night after they cheered."
He tapped ash into a forgotten silver tray.
— "They think the speech is the peak.But this? This is where leadership begins.When everyone's gone.When your voice is hoarse.When your only company is the echo of your own certainty."
He sat at a desk.Pulled out a black notebook.
The same one Emir now owned.
— "You walked out into the light," Atatürk said.— "Bravo. Mazel tov. Allah kabul etsin."
He smirked.
— "Now comes the part where you realize:They didn't see you.They saw what they hoped was behind you."
—
Emir sat across from him.
Quiet.
Listening.
Atatürk leaned forward.
— "Are you ready to be misunderstood?Quoted wrongly?Blamed for things you inspired but never touched?"
Emir swallowed hard.
— "No."
— "Good," Atatürk said. "Then you're honest."
He stood again.
— "They're going to use your image against you.They'll say:'He's no Atatürk.'Or worse:'He thinks he is.'"
He turned away.
— "Let them."
A pause.
Then, softer:
— "Because what matters is not if you resemble me.What matters is if the next child... resembles you."
—
The dream shimmered.
Faded.
But one line echoed like a stamp on the air:
"History does not ask you to repeat me.It begs you to make sure I wasn't wasted."
Morning – Present Day
Emir woke without gasping.
He simply sat up.
And wrote.
"The voice stays.Even when it stops speaking."
"It speaks again—In how you walk.In who dares speak after you.And in whether anyone remembers why we listened in the first place."
He stood.
Outside, the city was stirring.
But something had changed.
This was no longer a whispering movement.
This was a memory with a mouth.
And it was about to speak.