It happened on a Tuesday.Gray sky. Dust in the wind.Emir had no plans—just a delivery to the outer districts.
The bookstore had been helping with quiet donations—books too "emotionally ambiguous" for public shelves.
He dropped the bag at a small school built from reused construction panels.As he turned to leave, a voice stopped him.
— "You're the man who remembers too hard."
He turned.
A boy.Nine, maybe ten.Bright eyes. Calm shoulders.Wearing a jacket that looked like it had seen too many rains.
— "Excuse me?" Emir asked.
— "They say you carry a voice.But that it's not yours."
Emir blinked.
He crouched to the child's eye level.
— "Who told you that?"
The boy shrugged.
— "Nobody.I just... know."
He tapped the side of his head.
— "Sometimes I hear things.But they don't sound like thinking.They sound like... old thunder trying to be gentle."
—
"He hears me," Atatürk whispered suddenly—But not in Emir.Not like before.
The voice was no longer inside him.
It had shifted.
Or perhaps... expanded.
—
— "Do you hear it now?" Emir asked softly.
The boy nodded once.
— "But not words.Just... patience.And a little sadness."
He looked past Emir.
— "He's tired.But proud of you."
Emir's breath caught.
This wasn't metaphor.This wasn't imagination.
This was transfer.
—
— "Do you know who the voice belongs to?"
The boy hesitated.
Then said:
— "Not exactly.But when I close my eyes…I see a man who stands like trees do.Tall, but full of wind."
—
Emir sat on the low step beside him.They didn't speak for a while.
Then the boy added:
— "You don't need to keep carrying it, you know."
Emir looked at him sharply.
— "What do you mean?"
— "He said the wind remembers now.Not just you."
And with that, he stood up.
Dusted his hands.
— "I have math class."
And walked away.
—
"He's right," Atatürk said inside him—quietly, distantly, like a farewell wrapped in admiration.
"You were never meant to be the only one.Just the first one who said yes."
Emir didn't answer.
He couldn't.
He was still sitting on the step,watching a small shape disappear into a classroom—
and realizing he was no longer the carrier.
Just the spark.