The ceiling above him stretched like a dry, unfamiliar sky.
Emir Kara blinked. Once. Twice.His breath caught in his chest—strange, disconnected.The sterile scent in the air, the pulse in his wrist… it all felt wrong.
"Am I dead?"
No pain. No panic. Just… silence.Too quiet.
Then the nurse's voice shattered it, far and echoing:
— "He's awake!"
But another voice came first.Not from the room. Not from outside.
From within.
"Breathe. See. Feel.You are not alone anymore."
Emir stiffened. His fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.
"Who—who said that?"
No reply.Not yet.
Later, the doctors called it a miracle.
Forty-seven seconds of clinical death.No brain damage. No memory loss.No explanation.
But Emir knew something had shifted.
When he stood up for the first time, it was like his feet weren't used to gravity.His reflection in the hospital mirror stared back with eyes that didn't feel entirely his.
"I'm Emir Kara... aren't I?"
"Yes."
"Then... who are you?"
"In time, you'll understand.But know this—there is no longer just 'I'.There is now 'we'."
Discharged that afternoon, the world felt too loud.Too bright.Too slow and too fast, all at once.
A child posed in front of a bronze statue in the park.His mother called out: "Look! That's Atatürk!"
And something stirred inside Emir.A whisper, old and weary.
"When did I become a statue? When did my voice become... quiet?"
That night, Emir didn't turn off the light.It wasn't the dark that unnerved him—it was the silence.
He lay still, eyes wide open, heart beating in strange rhythms.
Then he spoke. Out loud. For the first time.
— "If you're real… speak."
The response came without delay.
"Very well, Emir.Then I will tell you everything.But first… you must tell me who you are."