Same building.Same hallway.But this time, no elevator music.No receptionist.
Only a sign on the office door:
"Take your time.There are no wrong answers."
He pushed the door open.
And stepped into a room that had no windows, no table, no chairs.
Just walls.And on each wall: questions.
Written in black marker.Hundreds of them.Some old. Some familiar.
Some that felt like they'd been taken from his notebook.
He stepped closer to the left wall.
The first question:
"What if silence is the last language we still trust?"
Below it:
"Are you a voice, or are you an echo that got tired of waiting for its source?"
He read.And read.
The questions didn't accuse.They revealed.
—
"Interesting," Atatürk said inside him—quiet, but not distant."They're not asking to understand you.*They're asking to see if you still understand yourself."
—
One wall was different.
It had only six questions.
Each painted in red ink.
Each one simple.Brutal.
"Have you created anything you can't control?"
"Would you still do this if no one remembered your name?"
"Do you love the people you've awakened—or just the feeling of being heard?"
"Is your silence still yours, or has it become performance?"
"Can you still tell where you end, and the myth begins?"
"If history walked into this room, would it recognize you—or someone you once pretended to be?"
He didn't write answers.Didn't speak them.
He just stood there.
Letting the questions press into him like heat through glass.
—
"They're trying to see if you'll collapse under the weight of your own reflection," Atatürk finally said."Would you like me to help you answer them?"
— "No."
He said it aloud.
— "These are mine."
And for the first time,Atatürk didn't respond with a thought,or a lesson,or a phrase from Solara.
He simply said:
"Good."
—
On his way out, he found a note taped to the inside of the door:
"Thank you for not running.The doors only open for those who stand still."