His name was Nevzat.Mid-fifties.Wore his badge like it weighed more than his heart.
His official title:Cultural Systems Alignment Auditor, Tier 2
He was sent to the bakery loft after someone filed an anonymous tip about "ongoing unregulated memory gatherings."
He arrived at 9:00 sharp.Notebook in hand.Voice recorder.Tie two shades darker than acceptable.
Emir wasn't there.
But six others were.
They offered him tea.
He refused.
Then accepted.
Then sat.
Then forgot to turn on the recorder.
—
The session had already started.
Not a lecture.Not a protest.
Just people reading old writings.Their own.Their mothers'.Strangers'.Fragments.
One line caught him off guard:
"I forgave my fatherin a language he never spoke."
He paused.Pretended to check a form.Underlined nothing.
Another voice spoke:
"I'm not here because I remember clearly.I'm here because forgetting didn't work."
He sipped his tea.
It had gone cold.But he didn't mind.
—
At one point, someone passed him a paper and said:
— "You don't have to write anything deep.Just true."
He almost said no.
Instead, he wrote:
"I am tired of measuring thingsthat won't stop breathing."
He folded it once.Slid it into his inside jacket pocket.Like contraband.
"You won't file that report," Atatürk's voice murmured into Emir's consciousness."But it's not disobedience.It's relief."
—
When Emir arrived later that evening, Nevzat was standing by the bookshelf.
They made eye contact.
No introductions.
Just a quiet understanding.
Nevzat handed him a blank inspection form.Still crisp.Still warm from the clipboard.
— "Everything's in order," he said.
— "What did you find?" Emir asked.
Nevzat hesitated.
Then smiled, almost imperceptibly.
— "Nothing we can tax."
And left.
Without another word.
—
That night, Emir opened his notebook and wrote:
"He came with forms.Left with fragments."
"Maybe control doesn't fear rebellion.Maybe it fears resonance."
"Poetry is the audit they can't balance."