One morning, I woke up in a place unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. The scent of freshly baked simit filled the air, and the warm rays of the sun streamed through the window. As I sat up, I realized I was not in my usual surroundings—I was in a house in 19th-century Salonica. Before I could process what was happening, a boy my age burst into the room with boundless energy. His piercing blue eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Come on! We have so much to do today!” Mustafa said, grabbing my hand and pulling me outside.
We ran through the cobbled streets, the city buzzing with merchants and children playing. Mustafa spoke passionately about his dream of becoming a soldier, his love for books, and his admiration for his mother, Zübeyde Hanım.
Our first stop was school. Mustafa was eager to show me his favorite subjects—mathematics and history. He explained how numbers fascinated him and how strategy and planning could shape a country. His teacher praised his intellect, saying, “Mustafa always questions things, always seeks the truth.”