The knock came at midnight.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Three short, sharp raps on the door.Not aggressive. Just confident.
Emir hesitated before opening it.
She was standing there—long coat, tired eyes, that same girl who'd accused him of non-answers three meetings ago.
She didn't wait for an invitation.
— "I won't stay long."
— "I didn't ask you to come."
— "Doesn't matter. You need to hear this."
She walked past him, straight to the desk, glanced at the wall where his notes and clippings were pinned like constellations trying to form meaning.
— "You've become an echo chamber.For everyone but yourself."
He raised an eyebrow.
— "Meaning?"
— "Meaning you're starting to say what people want to hear—just well enough to sound like you're challenging them."
Emir didn't reply.
Because part of him agreed.
"She's not wrong," the voice admitted. "You've been careful.And truth doesn't survive long when handled gently."
She turned back to him.
— "You know what people see when they look at you?"
— "A question."
— "No. A mirror.And most people don't like what they see in one."
She pulled a folded piece of paper from her coat pocket.
Laid it on the table.
— "This was from my brother.A note he wrote in high school before they expelled him.For quoting something... someone."
Emir opened the paper.
The handwriting was rough. Young.But the words hit like iron.
"We are not what they allow us to remember.We are what they try hardest to make us forget."
He read it twice. Then again.
— "He died last year," she said. "Brain tumor.Didn't stop fighting until the end.He thought memory could be a weapon."
— "It is," Emir said.
— "Then use it.Don't just speak—mean it.And if you ever stop,step aside for someone who won't."
She walked out without waiting for a reply.
The door closed softly behind her.
—
He stood there, paper in hand.
The words pulsed through him.
Not loud.Not angry.
Just… real.
"You okay?" the voice asked.
— "I'm not sure."
"Good."
"Certainty is for men who stopped listening."
—
He tacked the paper to the wall.
Center.
Higher than his own notes.
And below it, he wrote in pencil:
"The mirror doesn't choose what it reflects.But it decides how clearly."
He stared at it long into the night.
And felt the room staring back.
—