It started with a billboard.
Clean, bold lettering:
"1923–2023: Century of Memory"Presented by the Initiative for National Continuity
Beneath it, the familiar spiral.Stylized. Simplified. Polished.
And most importantly—not his.
—
Within a week, it was everywhere.
TV ads.Bus stops.Social media animations.Merchandise—god help him, there were mugs.
The campaign called for "a return to values,""a renewal of civic strength,"and "a century of respectful reflection."
It quoted Emir.
Poorly.
It quoted Atatürk.
Selectively.
And it never once said where it got its ideas.
Because, technically?
It didn't have to.
Emir watched the rollout from the bookstore, arms crossed.
Narin stood beside him, holding a flyer like it might explode.
— "They've borrowed everything but your face."
— "They want the echo," he said,— "not the original sound."
She looked at the flyer again.
— "There's a signature at the bottom.A stylized one."
— "Whose is it?"
— "Yours.Except... it's not."
—
"Ah," Atatürk whispered with grim amusement,"they've started signing your work for you."
"Soon, they'll tell people what I meant too.In helpful bullet points.With patriotic hashtags."
Emir smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
— "Can you trademark a year?"
"They already did.What they can't patent is the discomfort you left behind."
—
Later that night, a group of Circle members gathered in the tram depot.
They didn't rage.
They didn't post.
They just reprinted one of Emir's old notes—on cheap paper, folded into quarters:
"Do not let your memory be sold back to you with a ribbon on top."
They scattered the notes in cafés.Tucked them inside campaign flyers.Left them in library books.Printed them on receipts.
No accusations.No logos.
Just… static.
And clarity.
—
That night, Emir finally opened his notebook and wrote:
"They want to sell remembrance by the centimeter.They want to hang 1923 on every wall—as if a date was ever the point."
"The Republic is not an anniversary.It's a task."