The sky was black with smoke.
Not metaphor.Not memory.Smoke that choked like wet cotton and settled in the teeth.
Emir stood in a trench.
His uniform was unfamiliar.So was his body—lean, young, tired in a way his bones hadn't felt in years.
A soldier's body.
But this wasn't his dream.
It was Atatürk's.
A few meters away, under a collapsed canopy of branches and torn canvas, Mustafa Kemal kneeled beside a rusted tin bowl.He held a strip of cloth, dabbing it against the inside of a leaf funnel.
Drop by drop, he collected dew.
— "We lost twelve men that day," he said, not looking up.
— "Only three to bullets.The rest…"He held up the cloth.Soaked, but barely.
— "…to waiting."
Emir didn't speak.
He could feel the parched quiet of the trench pressing against his ribs.
Atatürk stood and looked at the hills beyond the smoke.
— "You know, Kara…we were brilliant at dying for a country."
He turned.
— "But no one taught us how to make it breathe after."
They walked.
Somewhere distant, artillery cracked like thunder run backwards.
And then… quiet.
A hill.Green, not burned.Soft earth beneath their boots.
At the top: a device.
Round.Bronze coils.Three prongs shaped like petals rising from a stone base.
It made no noise.
But mist gathered at its center—dripping into a basin made of copper.
Atatürk placed his hand on the coil.
It glowed faintly.
— "We didn't have this," he said.— "But we should've.Before the anthem, before the flag—we needed this."
He looked to Emir, eyes calm but heavy.
— "In Solara, we studied equations that began with kindness.Not speed.Not profit.Kindness."
He paused.
— "You don't need to understand it.You only need to remember the shape."
Then, gently, he spoke the fragment:
"Where light breathes, energy listens."
And disappeared.
Emir woke before dawn, hand trembling.
He found a pen.Sketched what he saw.
He didn't know what it was.Didn't know how it worked.
But he knew this:
It wasn't a metaphor.
It was a blueprint.
And somewhere in this world,someone else might know how to build it.