Yesterday morning came around. My hand reached for my phone without thinking. A clip started playing—someone had filmed it in Tokyo. Every word made sense, somehow. The speaker used Japanese sounds, yet her meaning landed clearly, as if she had chosen my words on purpose.
I stepped outside. Mr. Chen, my neighbor—normally speaking Chinese—spoke just like I do. Down the road, every person’s voice matched mine: the same rhythm, the same flow, one after another. It felt strange, yet clear—it had never happened before. A shift. A moment that seemed to stand still.
Later that day, the television showed faces lit up across continents. Across villages in Africa, laughter met voices from European towns—no device between them. Conversations flowed as they always had, yet somehow new again.
These days, things feel simpler. Dictionaries are gone. Yet something feels flat, almost too quiet. The music in foreign words—that is what slowly slips away.