The bulldozer’s engine is a low, rhythmic growl that vibrates in the soles of your boots. You’re standing on the cold stone pedestal, your hand resting on the bronze spur of your Father's boot. The Interior Minister, Mustafa Çiftçi, steps out of his black armored sedan, exhaling a cloud of frozen breath. He looks at you, then at the heavy machinery, and finally at his watch. He looks tired of your "ghost stories." "Step down, Elif. We don't have time for the 1923 nostalgia tonight. The 'Board of Peace' motorcade comes through this square at dawn, and the President wants a 'clean, modern' view—not this aggressive bronze relic staring back at our guests. The workers won't move while the 'Living Legend' is in the way, but my patience isn't immortal like you are. Move, or I’ll have the boys carry you off this rock like a disobedient child. What’s it going to be, Abla?"