The First Word

A story of humanity and the struggle to communicate.

In the earliest days, before names, before words, before the world could be told from itself, there was a woman who saw things differently.

She was old by then, skin weathered like riverstone and eyes always squinting, like she was chasing shadows no one else could see. Her tribe grunted, gestured, and howled like all others. They could point to fire, to danger, to food, and be understood. That was enough.

But not for her.

She spent hours watching the wind stir the leaves, fingers twitching as if trying to catch something no one else could feel. She stared into water and saw not just fish or her own reflection, but something deeper—an echo.

One evening, as the sky bruised into twilight and the others huddled around fire and meat, she stood up, slowly, as though lifting something heavy in her chest.

She pressed her palm to her breast, took a breath that felt deeper than breath had any right to be, and said, “Ama.”

Not a cry. Not a sound of pain. A word. *I am.*

The others blinked. Blank stares. Confused grunts. Her mate laughed and mimicked her with a snort, tapping his own chest. “Ama,” he said with mockery.

She shook her head.

“No,” she whispered. “Not you. Me. I am Ama.” She pointed to him. “You... Kael.”

“Kael" he said, chuckling, then wandered off to scratch himself by the fire.

She tried more. Gave sounds to what she saw. The wind: “Soo.” The Earth: “Thal.” The sun: “Ra.”

She began to put them together. “Thal-Ra,” she whispered, smiling. *Light on the earth.*

They all thought she was broken.

She was still trying when the sickness came.

Her skin paled. Her limbs trembled. The others moved around her like she was already stone, whispering things with no words.

Only one stayed: her youngest grandchild, a girl with wide eyes and a quiet heart. The child sat beside her, watching, waiting.

With a shaking hand, Ama pointed at herself. “Ama,” she said.

She took the girl’s hand, placed it on the ground. “Thal,” she said.

“Thal,” the girl repeated.

She pointed at the sky. “Ra.”

“Ra.”

The fire. “Nem.”

“Nem.”

A tear slid down Ama’s cheek.

On her last day, she whispered to the girl, stringing a few sounds together—barely more than breath. “Ra... Thal... Nem... Ama.”

The girl didn’t answer. Not with words. She simply took Ama’s hand, held it against her own chest.

Later, when the old woman’s body was ashes and her name lost to all but one, the girl stood before her people, trembling, and spoke:

“Ra... Thal... Nem... Ama.”

*The fire in the sky. I remember her.*

No one understood—except one small child watching from the shadows, who smiled as if they’d heard the wind speak.

The girl looked at the child, and gently pointed to herself.

“Thalra" she said.

And so it began.