ARCHIVE OF UNSAID THINGS

Ren worked in the Municipal Archive of Unsaid Things, a place where every hesitation left a paper trail. The archive stored words people had swallowed before arguments, apologies that died in the throat, and love letters folded so many times they became too thick to send. It was funded by the city because spoken words were considered hazardous; unsaid ones were presumed safe.

One afternoon the shelves began to cough. Every time a box opened, someone in the streets above forgot how to say "I." First it happened to people with secrets. Then to everyone. Newsreaders announced that the weather was fine and that nobody was personally responsible for the forecast.

Ren found the oldest box in her aisle labeled TAVI — PRIVATE, DO NOT OPEN. Tavi was her sister. They had not spoken since the winter their father died. The box was dated six years before he died, and it weighed more than a suitcase.

Ren could open the box and discover what her sister had never said, or find the archive's chief conservator and ask why the city's own pronouns were going missing.