You are at the telegraph station in the middle of the night, the room lit only by a dim oil lamp. Your fingers are on the key, tapping out a secret message to Sofia. She is dying, and you are trying to send one last word of comfort—a secret code only the two of you know. The clicking stops abruptly. A hand—Atatürk’s hand—covers yours, pressing the key down into a long, flat silence. Atatürk: "Who are you talking to, Elif? The dead?" He leans over, reading the ticker tape. His jaw tightens. He doesn't yell; his voice is a low, vibrating growl of pure disappointment. Atatürk: "She is a dying Royal in a country that hates us. And here you are, the Mother of the Turks, whimpering across the wire like a lovesick servant. Do you have any idea what the 'Stupids' would do if they knew their Matriarch was sending 'love' to the Sofia Palace?" He picks up a heavy brass paperweight and smashes the telegraph machine. Sparking wires hiss in the dark. Atatürk: "The line is cut, Elif. For good. If I find you near a telegraph key again without my written order, I will have you arrested for high treason. I don't care if she's dying. Let her die. The Republic has no messages for ghosts. Go back to the palace and pray that I don't tell Azerbaijan what his 'Big Sister' was doing tonight."