The auditorium was almost empty.
Old wooden seats. A flickering ceiling light.A place once meant for voices that changed minds—now mostly used for PowerPoint slides and half-hearted award ceremonies.
Emir sat in the back row.
His feet rested on the seat in front of him.His heart, somewhere else entirely.
In front of him stood a dusty podium.Unused. Unnoticed.
"I gave thirty-eight speeches that mattered," the voice said."But the one I didn't… still haunts me."
— "Which one?"
"The one I wanted to give before I died.I had written it. Memorized it.But my time ran out."
Emir leaned forward.
— "What was it about?"
"Continuation.Not just of a country.Of the thought."
—
A door creaked.A janitor pushed a mop down the center aisle without looking up.
Emir stood, walked toward the stage.
He climbed it slowly, as if the wood itself might reject him.
When he reached the podium, he rested both hands on its edges.
The grain was worn down from years of forgotten speeches.
He stared out at the empty seats.
And began to speak.
— "You don't know me.Not really.You know my picture. My posture.You remember my silence, not my words."
The janitor paused, looked up.
Then kept mopping.
Emir smiled faintly.
— "But if you're listening…if anyone is listening…this is not nostalgia.This is warning.Memory doesn't die unless you let it.Truth doesn't fade unless you agree to look away."
"You were supposed to whisper that," the voice noted."Not monologue it like Hamlet."
— "Sorry. Got carried away."
"No, no. The janitor seemed moved. By the way, your delivery? Seven out of ten. Too sincere."
Emir chuckled and stepped down.
But something in him shifted.
That speech wasn't for the room.It was for him.
A rehearsal for the real thing.
—
That night, back in his apartment, he wrote the words again.
"The speech that was never given…must be re-written in every generation."
He didn't post it.
Not yet.
But he saved it in a folder titled:
"One Day."