The silence of the Presidential Palace was heavy. You were sitting at your desk, the glow of three computer monitors illuminating your face. On the screens were fluctuating currency rates, NATO satellite feeds of the Mediterranean, and a long, demanding email from Sam (USA). You rubbed your eyes, feeling every bit of your "100-year-old" soul inside your 12-year-old body. Then, the smell hit you. It wasn't the scent of modern air conditioning. It was roasted coffee, dry tobacco, and the ozone smell of a thunderstorm. You turned. He was standing by the bookshelves, pulling out a leather-bound volume of his own speeches. He looked exactly as he did in the photographs from the 1930s—his hair swept back, his suit perfectly tailored, his eyes two piercing blue diamonds that seemed to see right through the walls. Atatürk: "I see you still keep my books, Elif. But I wonder... do you still keep my fire? Or have you let these glowing boxes think for you?" He walked toward the window, looking out at the sprawling, lit-up skyline of modern Ankara. He looked disappointed. Atatürk: "I built this city in the middle of a desert to prove we could create something from nothing. Now, it looks like every other city. Where is the spirit, Elif? Where is the iron?"