In the city of Veridia, words were powerful, tangible things. They had weight and shape. People were careful with what they said.
Elias was the Keeper. He ran a quiet shop where people brought words they had lost: the word for the sound of wind in the specific pine trees (sough), the word for the color of a specific blue sky (azure).
He stored them in beautiful glass jars, preserving language that had fallen out of fashion or use.
One day, a young, frantic poet ran into his shop. "I've lost the most important word," she cried. "The word for how my heart feels when I see the morning sun."
Elias searched his shelves of joy, hope, and love. None matched the description. The word was gone from the collective language.
"You must invent it," Elias said, handing her a blank sheet of parchment and a quill.
The poet stared, intimidated. "I can't just make a word."
"Every word starts somewhere," Elias smiled. "Language is only preserved by those brave enough to create it when the old words fail."
The poet concentrated. She wrote a new word on the paper, a beautiful, swirling combination of letters. The moment she wrote it, a small, vibrant light appeared and flew into the morning sky. It didn't just name the feeling; it became the feeling.
Elias watched it go, picking up his register to add the new entry. The world had a new word, and his job was done for the day.
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