It was early.
The kind of early where the world still belonged to fog and footsteps.
Emir came down to open the bookstore and found the door already unlocked.
Strange.
But not threatening.
Inside, everything was untouched.
Except the counter.
There, resting beneath a paperweight, was a single folded page.
Blank.
But when he lifted it, he noticed:
An impression.
Not ink.Not pencil.Just pressure.
Someone had written something and taken the original.
But the mark remained.
He held it to the light.
Angled it.Felt the words more than saw them.
And read:
"We're ready to try without you."
—
He didn't panic.
Didn't sigh.
He just stood there for a long moment.
Then whispered:
— "Good."
—
Narin arrived twenty minutes later.
She saw the page.
Didn't ask who it was from.
She just walked to the back, made tea, and returned with two mugs.
Emir was still staring at the counter.
— "Are you okay?" she asked.
He nodded.
— "I think… this is what trust looks like when you don't control it."
—
"They left the paper," Atatürk said softly that night,"because they knew you didn't need the words anymore."
"And you?You finally believed them."
—
Emir placed the paper inside his notebook.
Didn't press it flat.
Left the crease.
Let the silence breathe.