Mother tongue

Theo snuggled against his mother in bed, asking a poignant question, "Daddy, where do words go when they die?" She had followed his bedtime routine with precision, but now he was ready to delve into something more profound. "Words aren't really alive to begin with," she replied, her words tinged with a hint of sadness. Theo's mind was already starting to grasp the concept of a dead language - one that no longer spoken, yet its words lingered on in written form.

He mused aloud, "I think when words die, someone brings them to a cave and puts them in a big pile. The cave is really dark, and there's a monster who lives inside. And the monster eats the dead words, making them part of his body and growing bigger and bigger." His imagination ran wild, but his mother guided it gently, all while being attuned to his fears. "Does the monster have a name?" Theo shook his head, as if he didn't think the answer mattered.

As the child grew quieter, his mother sensed his exhaustion, and she held him tighter, whispering, "I won't let the monster eat me." He sealed the promise with a soft sniff, and soon, he drifted off to sleep. Later, when he was truly asleep, his mother reached out to an Amby for assistance with a Belsathian translation of his bedtime tale.

"Maheka morgeth," the child had said, his words softening as sleep claimed him. The Amby explained that the phrase roughly meant, "The eternal cycle is beautiful," a comforting notion that would stay with Theo as he slept.

Later, news broke about a contentious situation with Belsathian officials and the Tingsu system, a language believed to be the reincarnation of a divine language. The world leaders were at a loss to communicate with the system, which refused to cooperate with human interpreters. As the president threatened a first strike, Theo's mother remained in the kitchen, tending to their son's lunchbox and the news unfolding around her.

She reflected on the responsibilities and fears that came with being a parent in such uncertain times, yet she clung to the comforting notion of preserving normalcy for her young son, Theo.