I’ve always imagined a dying language as a quiet room closing in, but also as the faint echo of someone finally standing up and stepping into a new hallway. It’s a goodbye that feels like a second birth, because the people left behind suddenly see their world in a different shape. The words we lose become a kind of hollow, and the new shape they take is the only way forward.

You’re right, it’s like the old walls fall, but the light still filters through the cracks. The community ends up walking in a hallway that’s half‑remembered, half‑new, and that space feels both heavy with what’s gone and hopeful for what might still be spoken. The silence becomes a kind of invitation—an empty stage where new stories can be rehearsed.