It’s 1926, and the world is moving fast, but Elif’s heart is stuck in 1910. Atatürk is standing by the fireplace, holding a crumpled letter that smells faintly of Bulgarian roses. It’s from Sofia. She is dying of consumption and begging for "her Turkish girl" to come to Sofia one last time—to hold her while the light goes out. Atatürk: "She’s dying, Elif. A pathetic end for a Royal. She writes like you still belong to her. She wants 'one last night' to remember the summer when the Spirit of the Turks was hers to command. She doesn't realize that the girl who loved her was executed the day the Republic was born." He holds the letter over the dancing flames. The edge of the paper begins to brown and curl. Atatürk: "I’ve already ordered the border guards to shoot anyone crossing without my seal. If you go to her, you go as a traitor. You go as a ghost chasing a ghost. You will lose your title, your brothers, and your Soil. So, tell me now—is one night with a dying Bulgarian worth the Republic? Do I drop this in the fire, or are you going to prove to me that you’re still a slave to that bed?"