He saw it on the news—not even a headline.Just a segment buried between economic forecasts and weather alerts:
"The Kara Effect: National Exhibition to Open This Fall."
Photos of the planned structure appeared onscreen.Clean architecture.Neutral colors.Quotes on glass walls, taken from his early notebooks.
Below it, the line that twisted something in his chest:
"Sponsored by the Office of Civic Harmony."
—
He blinked once.
Then again.
Then whispered aloud:
— "They're not archiving me.They're embalming me."
—
"I warned you," Atatürk said."They couldn't erase me either.So they made me harmless."
"Statues. Stadiums. Coins.They call it memory.But it's just management."
—
Later that afternoon, Emir received a visitor.
Official badge.Friendly tone.
— "We'd love your blessing for the project," the man said, handing him a press release.— "We think it's time to formalize what you've done for the country."
— "Formalize?" Emir asked.
— "Yes. Preserve.Protect.Present."
Emir ran a finger along the paper's edge.
— "Am I still allowed to change my mind in public?"
The man hesitated.
— "The exhibit is about your legacy.Not your current… positions."
And there it was.
The velvet coffin.
The gentle assassination.
That night, Emir met with three Circle veterans in the apartment above the bakery.
They were angry.
— "It's a trap," one said.— "They're retiring you while you're still breathing."
— "It's worse than that," another replied.— "They're teaching people how to quote him—without listening."
All turned to him.
— "So what do we do?" they asked.
He looked at them.
Then quietly:
— "We open something on the same day."
— "A protest?" one asked.
— "A school?" another guessed.
He shook his head.
— "A door."
—
🖊 In his notebook that night, Emir wrote:
"They want to preserve my silence.So I will keep speaking."
"Not louder.Not brighter.But in ways they can't glasscase and light from below."