He didn't sleep.
Not because of noise, or pain, or fear.But because the silence wasn't empty anymore.It was crowded.
Emir lay flat on his back, hands over his chest like a statue.The ceiling above him felt closer than usual, like it might fall.
"Are you still there?"
The answer came not as a sound—but as a pressure inside his ribs.Like a ripple beneath his sternum.
"I never left."
He swallowed hard.
— "So this is real."
"Yes."
— "And I'm not going insane."
"You might feel like it. But no."
That voice… it wasn't cold or comforting.It was calm. Measured.A voice that had spoken to generals and strangers alike.And now, it echoed inside him.
— "I don't understand what's happening."
"Neither did I. At first."
That stopped him.
— "What do you mean?"
"When I awoke in Solara, I too thought I was dead.But I was only... unfinished."
The name hit him like a faint drumbeat.He didn't know what Solara was. Not yet. But something deep inside whispered: it matters.
Later that morning, he avoided mirrors.Not because he feared what he'd see—but because he feared what he'd recognize.
The voice didn't speak again for hours.But it watched.He felt it like static behind his eyes, like a second breath in his lungs.
He passed people in the street who looked straight through him.A barista asked for his name three times before writing it wrong anyway.
"This world runs fast," the voice said, "but sees nothing."
— "Welcome back," Emir muttered, barely above a whisper.
Back at home, he collapsed into the worn couch.
— "If you're going to be in my head, you should at least tell me who you are."
Silence. Then:
"I was once a man who built something that outlived him."
— "A building?"
"A nation."
The room seemed colder suddenly. Or maybe it was just his spine.
— "You're joking."
"No. And soon, neither will you."
— "You expect me to believe I've been possessed by... what, a ghost?"
"Not a ghost. A thought. A duty."
Emir stood up, pacing.
— "You expect me to carry that?"
"No. I expect you to share it."
That was when Emir felt it—a flicker of memory not his own.Hands holding a torn map.Voices in a ruined hall.The smell of burning paper.A name on a paper he'd never signed.
He dropped to his knees.
— "What the hell are you?"
The voice didn't answer right away.
Then, quietly:
"I am the echo of a promise.And you… are its next breath."