The world was not always this quiet.
Long ago, people remembered the same event in different ways. One story could have many versions, and no one thought it was strange. History was messy, but it was alive.
That chaos slowly became a problem.
When too many versions of the truth existed, people fought. They argued over what really happened. Some even went to war over it.
So someone made a decision.
Not to destroy the world.
Not to control people.
Just to choose one version of reality.
The version that caused the least trouble was kept.
The rest were quietly removed.
Old books stopped being copied.
Certain words were no longer spoken.
Stories that did not fit were forgotten.
The world became calmer.
Easier to understand.
But one thing was never truly erased.
Words do not die just because no one speaks them.
They remain, hidden beneath the language people still use.
And when even one of those forgotten words returns, the world begins to feel wrong.
Not with explosions.
Not with fire.
But with small things that no longer fit where they should.
And that is where this story begins.