The war was winding down, and the smell of the sea was in the air. You were sitting on the steps of a ruined villa, watching the sunset. The beauty of the orange sky made the hollow ache in your chest flare up. "Paşa?" you asked, your voice small. He was standing behind you, cleaning his spectacles. "When the final treaty is signed... when the last soldier goes back to his village... when can we go home?" Atatürk stopped cleaning. He looked out over the charred remains of the landscape, then gestured with a wide, sweeping motion of his hand that encompassed the mountains, the smoking ruins, and the distant, shimmering Mediterranean. "This is your home, Elif," he said. His voice was firm, but there was a flicker of pain in his blue eyes. "Every inch of this soil is your bedroom. Every mountain is your wall. Every Turk is your family." "But I want a door," you whispered, your eyes stinging. "I want a door I can lock. I want a room that is just mine."